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HIS FATAL SUCCESS. 



BEING 


THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF JOHN STUART 


WITH A PROLOGUE BY THE EDITOR 

/ 

MALCOLM BELL 



BELFORD, CLARKE & CO., 
CHICAGO, NEW YORK, AND SAN FRANCISCO 
Publishers 


London, HENRY J. DRANE, Lovell’s Court, Paternoster Row 


^2L3 
15 H 


COPYRIGHT, 1889 . 

BELFORD, CLARKE cfe COMPANY. 


CONTENTS 


THE PKOLOGUE. 

CHAP. PAGE. 

L The Locked Door. 7 

II. The Missing Man 18 

III. Investigations 25 

IV. The Return 34 

V. A Last Word 47 


THE STORY. 

CHAP. PAGE. 

I. The Seed is Sown 51 

II. The Bud Blossoms 59 

III. The Fruit Ripens 71 

IV. A Fearful Discovery 79 

V. Mixed Feelings 95 

VI. First Fruits 104 

VII. Love in a Mist 113 

VIII. The Worm Turns 122 

IX. The Deserted Cottage 133 

X. A Dreadful Encounter 141 

XL Two Women 153 

XII. The Dark House 160 

XIII. A Lengthened Tether 170 

XIV. At Sea 180 

XV. Gentlemen-Discoverers 191 

XVI. Reunited 200 

XVII. Ca.st Away 211 

XVIII. The Last of the White Lily 223 

XIX. The Chain is Broken 234 

XX. In Safety * . . . 249 



HIS FATAL SUCCESS. 


THE PROLOGUE. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE LOCKED DOCK. 

I HAD already for some eighteen months occupied 
the humble position of clerk to the Wickworth and 
County Bank, when in March, 1852, owing to the 
rapidly increasing business of the conce^Ti, the late 
John Stuart was engaged and came to share, aiid in 
part relieve, my labors. 

He was, as his name may lead some to suspect, a 
Scotchman, though neither his appearance nor his 
speech betrayed the fact; five and twenty years of 
age ; strong, good-looking, and healthy ; of pleasing 
manners and lively spirits; consequently, rubbing 
shoulders, as we were daily at our desks in the 
dismal and ill-ventilated little tank which at that 
time Avas dignified by the title of Clerks’ room, we 
soon became firm friends. We swapped confidences 
in the intervals of our work by day, and, after hours, 
shared in the simple and somewhat limited amuse- 
ments which Wickworth and the surrounding country- 
side afforded. 


8 


Prologue, 


I endeavored early in our acquaintance to persuade 
him to take rooms in the same house in which I 
myself resided, but to this proposal he always offered 
a firm, though kindly opposition. 

He had rooms in a large old-fashioned house stand- 
ing at the foot of the hill, just on the outskirts of the 
town. The place seemed to me to be dismal, and his 
two rooms with their heavy, old oak furniture, 
unutterably depressing, but he professed to like 
them, and always founded his objections to join me 
on this preference, in spite of my half-joking insistance 
tliat he had other reasons. 

Indeed, notwithstanding our real friendliness, there 
was always a barrier of reserve in him beyond which 
I found it impossible to penetrate, and against which 
the wings of my friendship long beat in vain. 

He would enlarge upon many subjects with the 
utmost freedom, displaying the keen intelligence and 
solid sense so common to his nation, but others he 
would invariably carefully avoid, or only lightly 
touch upon. Among those which he resolutely re- 
fused to discuss were the power of second-sight, 
claimed by some of his countrymen, the appearance 
of spectres, wraiths, and warning spirits; in short the 
whole mass of ghost lore with which Scotland abounds. 
All attempts of mine to draw him into an argument 
on these, or similar matters were met by a shrug of 
the shoulders, or a cheery laugh, and I never could 
extract from him even the broadest opinions of assent 
or dissent. His mind, so open to me in most things, 
was here a sealed book. 

On January the first, 1858, we had a holiday at the 


Prologue. 


9 


bank. There was a fine frost, but Stuart pleaded 
private business as an excuse for not accompanying 
me out skating, offering, however, to be at my disposal, 
if I liked, in the evening. I was the more anxious to 
induce him to devote the day to outdoor exercise as 
I had remarked of late with considerable distress, a 
serious falling off in his health and spirits. He had 
become terribly thin, and seemed to have lost all 
appetite, while mentally he was depressed, and given 
to unwonted fits of abstraction ; answering when 
spoken to, either not at all, or at random. He 
maintained, however, that he was perfectly well, and 
obstinately refused to consult a doctor, not indeed 
without some show of temper, if I was too persistent. 

I regretted all day that I had not insisted upon his 
coming with me, as I skimmed over the smooth surface 
of the lake, while the shouts and laughter of other 
skaters rang clear through the bright cold air. I 
pitied him shut up in his dreary room, and about 
eight o’clock I set off, determined to drag him out 
for a brisk walk in the bright moonlight which 
flooded the quaint old town. 

My surprise was great when, on my asking for 
him, his landlady assured me that he was out. 

‘‘Out!” I cried. “But T had an appointment 
with liim here at eight.” 

“ I’m very sorry, sir, but he’s out,” she repeated. 

There seemed to me, at the time, an air of con- 
straint and hesitation about her which I thought 
strange. 

“ Very well,” I said, “ I’ll go in and wait for him.” 

“ But, sir,” she exclaimed, with a catch in her 


10 


Prologue, 


breath which sounded almost like a sob, “ you can’t.” 

“ Can’t ! Why not ? ” 

Because, sir, his door is locked, and — ” she went 
on, suddenly bursting into tears. ‘‘ I don’t like it, 
sir, at all.” 

The woman’s manner and her sudden flood of tears 
puzzled and alarmed me, but I thought she had per- 
haps been drinking, and I answered her somewhat 
roughly, I am afraid. 

‘‘Nonsense. Don’t like it! Why not? Doesn’t 
he usually lock his door ? ” 

“ Never did such a thing before, sir; and he’s been 
out all day.” 

“ By George ! ” I exclaimed, in a burst of indigna- 
tion. “ What a shame, and he told me he should be 
at home all day, hard at work.” 

“ Ah I ” said the woman, quickly, “ did he say 
that? ” And then fell again to weeping and wring- 
ing her hands, crying — What shall I do? Oh, 
what shall I do?” 

“ Look here ! ” I said, harshly. “ What is the 
meaning of all this ? When did he go out? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir,” she answered, earnestly. 
“ Indeed, I don’t know.” 

“Did he come in last night?” 

“Yes, sir, he came in last night.” 

In fact, I remembered parting with him at his door. 

“ Did he go out again ? ” 

“He might have, sir; but I went to bed early, 
and didn't hear liim. I knocked at his door at eight 
this morning, but there was no answer, and as I knew 
he had a holiday to-day, I thought maybe he wished 


Prologue. 


11 


to sleep a bit longer, and so went away. I went 
again at nine, and again at ten, and still no answer 
to my knocking, nor sign nor sound from within. 
I don’t half like it, sir ; indeed I don’t half like it.” 

I was perplexed and doubtful how to act in the 
matter. On the one hand, the woman’s uneasiness 
was undoubtedly genuine ; on the other, to break 
into his rooms would create a disturbance which 
might throw an undesired light on some escapade 
which he wished to keep quiet. And yet he had al- 
ways appeared to be particularly steady and sedate. 

I proposed, finally, to go myself and knock at his 
door, to which the old woman gladly assented. I liad 
a heavy oak stick in my hand with which, after hav- 
ing first knocked gently several times, I thundered 
continuously on the door for over five minutes. The 
echoes rolled along the stone-paved passage and an- 
swered dully from within, but when I ceased not a 
sound came to break the silence, save the quick, 
broken breathing of the woman at my elbow. 

‘‘You see, sir,” she whispered, awfully. 

“ He is certainly not inside,” I answered. “ That 
knocking would wake tlie dead.” 

She gave a little ary of terror as I said the word, 
and turned as white as the wall behind her. 

“ Oh, don’t say that, sir,” she murmured. “ Don’t’ee 
say that.” 

‘* Come ! I said, pulling myself together, for the 
old creature’s chill hon or was beginning to infect me 
in spite of myself. “ I dare say it’s all right. He’s off 
on the lark somewhere, and will turn up all safe to- 
night. If not ” 


12 Prologue, 

‘‘If not, sir,” she said, catching quickly at my 
pause. 

If not, I’ll come round to-morrow at twelve and 
investigate. Good-night.” 

And I went out into the cold night air, consider- 
ably more disturbed than I cared to show, leaving 
the old woman shivering and trembling on the door- 
step. As I turned at the gate to look back, a sud- 
den gust of wind blew out the candle she was 
endeavoring to shield with her shaking hands, and, 
with a gasping cry, she turned and fled into the dark- 
ened doorway. 

I was at my desk at the usual hour next morning, 
but ten o’clock struck and then eleven, andstillJolin 
Stuart did not appear. He was, as a rule, punctual- 
ity and regularity itself, and, beginning to be serious- 
ly alarmed, I was on tlie point of going to speak to 
the manager, when the door opened and that func- 
tionary himself entered. 

“ Hulloa ! ” he exclaimed, casting a sharp glance 
round the room, “ where is Stuart ? ” 

Not here, sir,” I replied. 

“ Not here ! but that won’t do. I shall have to re- 
port him.” 

‘‘ Can I speak to you for a minute, Mr. Harwell ?” 
I said, with some hesitation. 

He looked up at me suddenly and grunted assent. 
In a few words I told him the whole of my last 
night’s interview, dwelling particularly on the land- 
lady’s anxiety and distress. As I spoke his face 
grew graver and more grave. 


Prologue, 13 

“Humph,” he said, when I had finished. ‘‘What 
do you think of it ? ” 

“ Really, sir,” I replied, “ I don’t know what to 
think. It seems to me queer.” 

“ Queer,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “ Ah ! that’s 
the word. Queer, queer,” and he went on for some 
time unconsciously muttering, “queer — queer — 
queer.” 

A pause ensued, during which he stood, evidently 
in deep deliberation, his brows bent, his eyes fixed 
on the ground, the fingers of his left hand twisting 
and untwisting his watch chain, while with the right 
he slowly rubbed the back of his head up and down, 
still murmuring : 

“ That’s the word queer — queer.” 

Suddenly he spoke out, as a man who has settled a 
difficult problem, and fully made up his mind to a 
course of action. 

“ Take your hat and run down and inquire. And 
look here — ” he called after me, as I was leaving the 
room, “ call in at the police-office on your way, and 
get a man to go with you. If you can’t get any 
answer to your knocking, break the door in. I will 
take the responsibility.” 

I did not waste much time in getting to the police- 
station and securing the services of a constable, and 
a man with a crowbar. Thus equipped, we started 
for Stuart’s lodging, followed by an ever increasing 
crowd of boys and loafers, who were attracted by the 
uniform and business-like air of the constable. 
Arrived at the house, he motioned to me and the 
mail with the crowbar to precede him, and then quick- 


14 


Prologue. 


ly following, he promptly closed and locked the gate 
behind him, leaving the crowd outside gaping, groan- 
ing, jeering, and giving other unmistakable signs of 
intense dissatisfaction. 

The landlady speedily answered our hasty summons^ 
and turned, I thought, a trifle paler at the sight of the 
policeman ; but I attributed this either to my own 
imagination, or to the awe which simple people nat- 
urally feel at the sight of a member of the force. ^ 
Now, then,” said he bluntly, ‘^what’s the mean- 
ing of all this here ? ” 

The woman trembled, and looked anxious, but she 
told her story straight-forwardly and well. Stuart 
had not come home, and her knocking that morning 
had again been unproductive of any response. She 
had made up her mind to wait until twelve, and, if I 
did not appear, to go at once, and report the matter 
to the police. 

‘‘ Ah ! ” said the officer, looking narrowly at her 
for a moment. ‘‘ When was he last seen ? ” 

‘‘ About half-past ten, the night before last.” 

Oh ! ” he repeated ponderously. “ About half- 
past ten the night before last. And in whose com- 
pany, if any ? ” 

The woman hesitated for an instant. 

“ Be careful now,” he continued sharply. “What 
you say will be used in — I mean it’s of the first im- 
portance.” 

“ In the company of this gentleman,” she said, 
with a deprecatory glance at me. 

“ Oh ! ” he exclaimed, wheeling round, and star- 
ing at me in what I thought a most offensive manner. 


Prologue, 15 

“ 111 the company of this gentleman. In — deed. 
Where?’’ 

‘‘ At the front gate.” 

“ Did this gentleman happen to come in ? ” 

“No,” I began, but he stopped me with a ridiculous 
mixture of mystery and pomposity. 

“ Hush ! ” he said, let this lady give her evi- 
dence unaided, if you please.” 

I was about to protest indignantly against his as- 
sumption that I was prompting the old woman, but, 
on second thoughts, I held my tongue. 

“No,” she said, “ he came in by himself, and did 
not, as far as I know, go out again.” 

“ Ah ! ” replied the intelligent officer thoughtfully, 
taking off his hat, and wiping his forehead with a 
handkerchief of startling redness. “ As far as you 
know.” 

He intended to convey a world of hidden meaning, 
as he slowly let fall these words one by one, and 
paused, laborously endeavoring to look as if he was 
thinking. 

“ And now,” he said at length,” let’s have a 
look at the room.” 

“You’ll have to break in then,” she answered, 
“For he has got the key.” 

“Well if we must, we must,” was the profound 
reply. 

We adjourned in a body to the door, and the con- 
stable, drawing his staff, knocked three times with it, 
exclaiming each time solemnly : 

“Open in the name of the law.” 

As was of course certain, there was no answer, and 


16 


Prologue, 


after a moment he turned to the man with the crow- 
bar, saying in a dignified way : 

The formalities is satisfied. Bust ’im in.” 

The door was stout and well fitted, so it was some 
time before he could force the thin end of the instru- 
ment between the jamb and it. He succeeded at 
last, and bore on it until the veins swelled in his fore- 
head, and liis face grew red and moist, but the door 
stood firm as a rock. Attempts at the upper and 
lower corners met with the same resistance. 

Bolted top and bottom,” lie said briefly, “we 
must try the hinges.” 

Here his efforts were more successful. The door 
plainly yielded, and after a good deal of hard strain- 
ing on his part, and much impatient and useless ad- 
vice on the part of the policeman, the hinges sudden- 
ly gave, and the door fell inwards with a crash. 

The room inside was as black as night. 

This was evidently unforeseen by the constable, 
who had not observed from outside, as I had at once, 
that the shutters were closed. He was apparently 
somewhat unwilling to enter, and I w'as about to do 
so, when he stopped me abruptly. 

‘•Fetch a candle,” he said to the landlady. “No 
one sets foot in this ’ere room until I have completed 
my survey.” 

.He stood in the middle of the room, holding up 
the candle, and throwing a liglit all round which il- 
luminated every corner. The furniture was in its 
usual order, the table littered with books and papers, 
but not a sign of Stuart, so putting the candle on the 
table he proceeded to take elaborate notes. 


Prologue. 


17 


“ Now,” he said, as he shut up his note-book. 
“ You others may come in.” 

I entered at once, followed by the landlady, and 
began to make observations for my own benefit, as I 
had not by then much respect for the penetration of 
the officer. 

The landlady approached the windows, and was 
about to remove the heavy bars from one of the shut- 
ters, when the constable interfered. 

Stop — stop — stop,” he cried. ‘‘ Touch nothing. 
Everything must be left as it is for the present. 
Fetch another candle.” 

Then with still more deliberation he prepared to 
visit the bed room which lay beyond. His face wore 
the half-cheerful, half-nervous expression of a man 
who expects to come upon a sight professionally lior- 
rible. A look that said plainly — ‘‘ We shall find him 
here, and a nice sight too.” 

We pressed close behind him as he slowly opened 
the door, letting a flood of sunlight into the dimly 
lighted room in which we stood. As I was placed I 
could not see into the room, but watching his face, 
I saw it fall with a ludicrous expression of dismay. 
With a cry of surprise he darted into the room and I 
followed. 

My eyes were dazzled for a moment by the glare 
of light, but, as soon as I could see, I looked quickly 
round. The room was very plainly, even scantily 
furnished, and there was no possible place of conceal- 
ment. One glance showed me instantly that it was 
empty. The bed had obviously been untouched 
since it was last made. 

John Stuart was gone. 


18 


Prologue. 


CHAPTER IL 

THE MISSING MAN. 

A THOROUGH search of the cupboards and closets 
in the front room threw no further light on the mys- 
tery. One thing alone was ascertainable, John Stuart 
was gone. 

‘‘ Well, this ’ere is a rum go ! ” was the only conclu- 
sion at which the policeman arrived. 

He had so clearly made up his mind that it was 
merely a case of suicide, and the utter emptiness of 
the two rooms had so completely upset his calcula- 
tions, that his disappointment, as is not uncommon 
with small minds, took the form of irritation. 

Why don’t you unbar one of them shutters ? ” 
he said roughly to the woman. 

‘‘ You told her yourself to touch nothing,” I said, 
as she hastened to obey. 

He glared at me for a moment in speechless indig- 
nation, and then turned away muttering under his 
breath something about ‘‘ hinterferin’ with an orficer 
in the execution of ’is dooty.” 

By this time one of the shutters was opened wide, 
the broad light of day poured into the room, and I 
continued, regardless of the officer, with whom I was 
thoroughly disgusted, to take notes on my own ac- 
count. Once or twice, when I approached him, as 
he was clumsily muddling up the papers on the table. 


Prologue. 


19 


he scowled fiercely at me under his brows, and 
growled, but he offered no further interruption. 

At last, having set down all the circumstances I 
thought of value, I put on my hat, saying 

“Well, the best thing I can do now, is to run up 
to the bank, and report to the manager.” 

“No, you don’t,” he cried, leaping to his feet. 

“ What do you mean ? ” I asked in surprise. 

“ Not without me,” he answered. 

“Why not?” 

I was beginning to lose my temper, at the man’s in- 
capacity and insolence. 

“Well, you see, young man,” he said. “ You were 
last seen in the company of this ’ere feller, and tho’ 
I don’t mean to say as I suspect — ” 

“ You had better not,” I interrupted fiercely, my 
blood boiling with rage at the implication. 

“ Here, here, here,” he said, rapidly retreating be- 
hind the table, as I took a step forward. “ Don’t 
let’s have any vi’lence. There ain’t no use in 
that.” 

I looked at him, for a moment, with a contempt 
which ought to have withered him, and, turning on 
my heel, said : 

“I am going to the bank. You can come too, if 
you like.” 

“ As I left the room I heard him hurriedly giving di- 
rections to the landlady about admitting no one, and, 
in another instant, he followed me out. 

We walked up the hill in silence, but, as we passed 
the police station, he said, in a much humbler 
tone : 


20 


Prologue, 


‘‘ W ould you mind stepping in a minute, sir, while 
I speak to the superintendent?” 

I nodded, and followed him in. The superintend- 
ent was writing at a high desk in a bare, plainly fur- 
nished office, when we entered. The man joined 
him, leaving me at the door, and began whispering 
to him in an eager, excited manner, occasionally 
glancing over his shoulder at me. His superior nod- 
ded once or twice during the earlier part of his nar- 
rative, but towards the end he seemed surprised. 
When the man finished, he laughed, saying: 

Pooh, man ! Nonsense. Get along to the man- 
ager at once.” 

Much crestfallen he followed me out, and, on our 
way to the bank, endeavored in a clumsy, awkward 
fashion to apologize for his suspicions. Mr. Barwell 
was expecting us, and listened to the policeman’s 
story of the search with a troubled face. 

‘‘ I’ll come down myself at once,” he said, at the 
end, and, taking his hat, he led the way. 

We found the landlady mounting guard before the 
broken door, and the rooms as we left them. 

After his usual quick glance round, Mr. Barwell 
turned to the policeman and said : 

“ And what do you make of it ? ” 

‘‘ Well, sir, my first opinion was that it was soo- 
icide, but now I think as how it’s a case of abscon- 
scion.” 

“ Ah ! ” he replied, shortly. “ Thank you. That’ll 
do, my man. You can go.” 

He thrust half a sovereign into his hand and dis- 
missed him. He seemed at first puzzled at this ab- 


Prologue, 


21 


rupt disposal of his authority, and inclined to resent 
it ; but seeing that the awkward ‘‘ hems ” with which 
he tried to attract attention were completely ignored, 
he slunk sheepishly from the room, and we saw him 
no more. 

‘‘Now that that idiot is gone, let us see what we 
can find,” said Mr. Barwell, going to the table and 
proceeding to examine the papers. I followed his 
example, and for some time we remained silent, 
glancing hastily through various manuscripts whicli, 
as far as I was concerned, were of no importance 
whatever. Presently I came to an envelope, sealed 
and addressed. 

“ Here is an envelope, sir,” I said, “ addressed to 
Mrs. Wilkins, who, I presume, is the landlady.” 

“ Call her in and inquire,” he said, without looking 
up. He had been engaged for some time in looking 
through a small book, which seemed to be a diary. 

Mrs. Wilkins, as I expected,* was the landlady ; and 
as she declared herself unable ' to read anything but 
large print, I, at her request, opened and read the 
letter, Mr. Barwell suspending his investigation 
while I did so. 

“ Is it Stuart’s handwriting ? ” he asked. 

“Yes, sir,” I answered. “Dated December 31st, 
1852.” 

“ The night he disappeared. Go on.” 

“Dear Mrs. Wilkins,” I read, “in case of my not 
returning within a week from the time you receive 
this, go to the cabinet between the windows and open 
the packet you will find in the top right-hand drawer. 

Jolin Stuait.” 


22 


Prologue. 


Is that all?” said Mr. Barwell. 

That’s all, sir.” 

He silently reached across the table between us 
and silently I handed him the letter. An interval 
followed, during which he read and re-read the docu- 
ment several times. At last he rose and slowly went 
to the cabinet. 

“ He says after a week, sir,” I ventured to remon- 
strate. 

“ I know, I know,” he answered, sharply, as if he 
had doubts himself as to the propriety of his proceed- 
ing. But in a case like this we can’t afford to waste 
so much valuable time, when every minute may be 
important to his safety. I Avill take the responsibil- 
ity.” And he opened the drawer. 

Tlie package he took from it was small and appar- 
ently weighty, wrapped in white paper and carefully 
sealed. He paused a moment as if still uncertain 
and then hastily broke it open. It contained a small 
parcel and a document of some kind. Leaving the 
first on the table he proceeded to read the latter. 

‘‘By Jove!” he exclaimed, “this beats every- 
thing.” 

“Dear Mrs. Wilkins,” he read aloud, “enclosed 
you will find a year’s rent for my rooms. Keep 
them ready for me for that period. If by the end of 
that time I have not returned, you will probably 
never see me again. John Stuart.” 

For fully five minutes we gazed at one another in 
blank amazement, and then he turned to the woman, 
saying : 

“ That will do, thank you, Mrs. Wilkins. I will 


Prologue, 


23 


keep this until the end of the week, and if Mr. 
Stuart has not returned by then you shall have it. 
See if you can find anything further,” he added to 
me, as the landlady left the room, ‘‘while I finish 
reading this diary.” 

For ten minutes I turned over paper after paper 
without result, and I was beginning to think that 
further search was useless, when I was startled by a 
sudden exclamation from Mr. Barwell. 

“ Come here ! ” he cried, excitedly. “ There, what 
do you make of that ? ” 

The diary which he put before me was a small one, 
and contained for the most part items of no general 
interest ; but every here and there was a strange en- 
try in Stuart’s neat handwriting. All were short 
and of the most mysterious import. 

Sept. 26th. Have determined to make the attempt. 

Oct. 5th. Failure, complete and utter. 

Oct. 18th. Have, I believe, a glimmering of the 
light. 

Nov. 1. Have heard the voice, indistinct, but un- 
mistakable. 

Nov. 17th. Have eaten nothing for four days. 

Nov.' 23d. Much nearer, I feel sure. 

Dec. 14th. Nearer than ever. 

Dec. 26th. Out of doors, a failure. 

Dec. 31st. Determined to make the final attempt 
to-night. 

And there an end. 

“Now, what on earth is to be made of that?” said 
Mr. Barwell, when I had finished. Slowly we read 
them all through again, but at the end they remained 


24 Prologue^ 

as incomprehensible as at first. Neither of us could 
make head or tail of the matter. 

What was the attempt? What were the voice and 
light ? What had eating nothing for four days to do 
with it ? The meaning, if there was any, was beyond 
our comprehension. 

“ Would it not be as well, sir,” I ventured to sug- 
gest, finally, to examine his books at the bank.” 

‘‘I have already done so roughly,” he replied. 
“ There is nothing wrong there, as far as I can see. 
No, that is not the reason why he has absconded.” 

‘‘ You think he has absconded? ” I remarked. 

What else can I think ? As far as I can make 
out he must be suffering from brain trouble of some 
kind, and has wandered away. He must be found.” 

No, sir,” I said firmly, ‘‘ he has not absconded. 
What the solution of this mystery is I do not know, 
and almost fear to think. What the explanation 
may be, I know no more than you. But of one thing 
I am certain. John Stuart has neither absconded, 
nor wandered away.” 

Mr. Bar well stared at me for a moment, as well he 
might. 

“No, no; of course not,” he said. “I mean noth- 
ing criminal when I say, absconded.” 

“You misunderstand me, sir. John Stuart has 
neither absconded nor wandered away.” 

“ What on earth do you mean ? ” he cried, com- 
pletely puzzled. “ One thing is certain. He is gone. 
Where ? ” 

“ That, sir, is and will, I fear, always remain a 
mystery.” 


Prologue, 


25 


“ Pooh ! he said, brusquely. ‘‘ How can you 
tell?” 

‘‘ When I made my observations, I noticed several 
points which entirely escaped that brilliant policeman. 
Firstly, Stuart had taken off his boots. Therefore, 
if he went out afterwards he must have gone in liis 
slippers. 

Secondly : The shutters were barred on the in- 
side. Thirdly : The lamp was lialf full of oil. 
Consequently it had been extinguished, and had not 
burned itself out.” 

“ Well ! ” interrupted Mr. Barwell. ‘‘ I see noth- 
ing in all that to disprove my theory that he has 
wandered away in a fit of temporary aberration.” 

“ No, sir. But this room has only two doors. 
Both were locked and bolted, and in each, as you can 
still see for yourself, the hey is on the inside,''^ 


CHAPTER III. 

INVESTIGATIONS. 

The week passed slowly away, but no news of 
John Stuart came to relieve our anxiety. A large 
reward was offered by the directors of the bank, who 
took the matter up warmly, when a searching exam- 
ination of his books showed that they were perfectly 
correct and regular in the minutest particulars. 

The police for miles around, stimulated by the 


26 


Prologue. 


sum offered, were actively engaged in liunting for 
traces of the missing man, but as yet in vain. Not 
a soul could be found who had seen any one remotely 
resembling him. One man, indeed, a farmer, driving 
home about twelve o’clock on the night John Stuart 
disappeared, remembered to have passed a man a mile 
or so from the town on tlie Sellingham road, but 
when ferreted out he proved to be merely an ordinary 
tramp, utterly unlike Stuart, who seemed, doubtless 
for good reasons of his own, very much disturbed at 
the light thrown upon himself and his proceedings 
by the police. But whatever the cause of this dis- 
taste for notoriety may have been, it had manifestly 
no connection with John Stuart or his doings. 

The ponds and rivers of the neighborhood were 
carefully dragged, but a plentiful supply of coarse 
fish and eels was the only reward of the investigators. 

A description of Stuart’s dress and personal ap- 
pearance was advertised far and wide, but still with 
no result. 

Mrs. Wilkins Avas examined and questioned again 
and again, but without eliciting anything further of 
importance. All she knew had been honestly told at 
first, and neither gained nor lost a tittle in the repeti- 
tion. 

There were fifty theories flying about — suicide, 
murder, abduction — all equally thrilling, and all 
equally supported by evidence. One thing only Avas 
known — John Stuart had disappeared. When lie 
shut his door behind him at half-past ten on the 
night of December the thirty-first, he vanished utterly, 
and it Avould seem finally, from the eyes of men. 


Prologue, 


27 


Mr. Barwell and I determined, after some delibera- 
tion, on keeping the facts of the diary and the locked 
doors to ourselves. Their publication could do no 
possible good, and might probably only act as a check 
on outside research. 

Tlie entries in the diary threw no light whatever 
on the matter, and their promulgation, and the com- 
ments they would receive, might, if Stuart ever re- 
appeared, be prejudicial to him. As to the locked 
doors, Mr. Barwell observed that, as Stuart was gone, 
he must have got out somehow, and how he had 
managed to do it was of less present importance than 
where he had gone to when he had done it. That 
was not my view of the matter, but I did not choose 
to expose myself to the scornful incredulity which 
my opinion would have met with from his hard- 
headed common sense ; so I held my tongue, and 
acquiesced in his conclusion, that silence was our 
wisest course. 

At the end of the week Mr. Barwell called me into 
his private office, and, taking from his safe the packet 
he had found in Stuart’s cabinet, handed it to me. 

‘‘ The week is gone,” he said, as he did so ; “ and, 
as Stuart has not come back, I suppose the only 
thing to be done is to fulfill the wish expressed here, 
as to his rooms. Take it down to Mrs. Wilkins your- 
self, and, while you are there, just take another look 
round that room and see whether you can make any- 
thing more of it.” 

Mrs. Wilkins, I observed, opened the door on 
the chain, but her face brightened when she saw me 
on tlie threshold, and she hastened to throw it wide. 


28 


Prologue. 


Oh, sir,” she said, as she stood aside to let. me 
pass in. I’m so glad it is only you. I’ve been so 
pestered and worrited this whole blessed week that, 
if it lasts much longer, I shall only be fit for the 
’sylum.” 

‘'Well, Mrs. Wilkins, of course that is to be ex- 
pected,’/ I answered. “ But public curiosity will soon 
die out. And now I want to speak to you.” 

“ Will you please to step into my parlor ? she said, 
leading the way. 

I noticed that she cast a half-frightened glance at 
Stuart’s door, and shrank to the other side of the 
passage as we passed it, but she made no allusion to 
the disappearance. 

I took a seat in her cheerful little room, bright 
with afternoon sun, and producing the packet, 
said : 

“Here, Mrs. Wilkins, is the rent to which Mr. 
Stuart referred. The week has passed, as you know, 
without any news of him so ; in accordance with his 
wishes, I have brought it to you.” 

I laid it on the table before her, but she still 
stood wiping her hands nervously on her coarse check 
apron, and neither touched it nor looked at it. Her 
eyes were fixed on the floor, and her face wore an 
expression of doubt and distress. 

“ Must I take it, sir? ” she said at length. 

“ Take it ! ” I cried in surprise. “ Why of course. 
Most women would be glad of such a chance. A 
year’s rent, and next to nothing to do for it.” 

“ I’d rather not have it, sir,” she answered. I’d 
liefer let it bide with you.” 


Prologue. 


29 


‘‘ That is out of the question,” I replied. “ It was 
poor Stuart’s wish that you should keep the rooms 
for him, and I don’t see how you can refuse.” 

‘‘ Oh, it isn’t that, sir,” she said hastily. I’ll keep 
the rooms for him, and welcome, but I don’t like to 
touch the money, and he gone.” 

This reluctance appeared to me so unusual and so 
strained, that, though I had, from the first, firmly 
believed in the woman, I could not help wondering 
whether she had not all along been keeping some- 
thing back. With this idea in my mind, I leaned 
forward, and said solemnly : 

“Mrs. Wilkins, are you quite sure that you have 
told us everything you know about this affair ? 
Have you, out of a mistaken sense of duty to Mr. 
Stuart, concealed anything ? ” 

“ I, sir ? ” she cried, with a frightened look in her 
eyes. “ Do you think I would do that, loving him 
like a mother as I did, if I may take the liberty of 
saying so of a young gentleman. I swear to God, 
sir,” she went on earnestly, “ I know no more what 
has become of him than the babe unborn.” 

“No, no; I didn’t mean that,” I interrupted. 
“ But is there no little fact which might seem to you 
of no importance? ” 

“Well, sir,” she said, reluctantly, lowering her 
voice to a whisper, “ there was one thing, but I 
didn’t like to mention it. I am certain Mr. Stuart 
never left the house that night. I barred and bolted 
all the doors and windows with my own hands, as my 
custom is, and in the morning they were barred and 
bolted still.” 


30 


Prologue, 


I started at this confirmation of a belief which for 
a week past, had been lurking, half unacknowledged, 
in the darkest corners of my mind. I had hesitated 
to accept it ; I had not been able to altogether reject 
it. Whatever had become of him, John Stuart had 
not left the house. 

Have you found nothing in his rooms to account 
for his absence ? ” I asked, after a period of deep con- 
sideration. 

Lor, sir,” she said, in a trembling voice, I 
haven’t entered them since the door was mended; 
dursn’t do it. The mere thought of those empty 
rooms gives me the cold horrors. I hate even to 
pass the very door. Untold gold wouldn’t bribe me 
to go through it alone. At night I throws my apron 
over my head and just skurries by.” 

‘‘ And you have heard no unusual sound ? ” 

‘‘Not a whisper, sir; the silence is that of the 
grave.” 

“ Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, rising, “ would you mind 
going there now with me, or at all events letting me 
go alone ? ” 

“I’ll come, sir, if so be you wish it,” she replied, 
with perceptible repugnance. 

As I stood in the silent room I was filled with a 
vague feeling of fear. Here, if anywhere, was the 
key to the puzzle. These walls alone knew the secret 
of John Stuart’s disappearance. From this spot he 
had vanished ; and to this spot, if to any, he would, 
I felt sure, return. But how he had left it, and where 
he had gone to, there was nothing to tell. 

The house, as I have before remarked, was ancient. 


Prologue. 


31 


Over tlie fireplace was carved a shield with a coat of 
arms, on either side of which were the initials R. T., 
doubtless those of the founder, and below the date 
1534. The hearth was large and open, and on a sud- 
den impulse I stepped onto it. 

I did not for a moment imagine that Stuart had 
left the room by the chimney. Such a supposition 
was absurd ; but no clue must be neglected, and I 
wished to ascertain if such a thing were possible. 

I saw at a glance that it w^as not. The chimney, 
though so wide at starting, narrowed rapidly, and I 
noticed, against the pale light that glimmered from 
above, that even in its narrowest dimensions it was 
crossed and recrossed by stout iron bars. There was 
no escape that way from my dilemma. 

Some of the furniture was very old, coeval, perhaps, 
with the house itself ; the rest of various but more 
modern periods. The floor was stout oak, and the ceil- 
ing plaster, supported by heavy beams. I examined 
every square foot of the flooring with anxious care, 
but there was no sign of recent disturbance, and in 
despair I threw a final glance round the room, pre- 
paring to leave. A sudden flash of inspiration burst 
upon my mind. 

Idiot that I must be not to have thought of it be- 
fore. The walls were panelled. Wliat more likely 
than that, in a spirit of inquiry, John Stuart had 
searched for and found a secret door ? Having en- 
tered, it had closed behind him, doubtless with a 
spring, and he had found himself trapped. Perhaps 
he had perished already of suffocation ; perhaps he 


32 


Prologue. 


might still be lingering within a few feet of me, 
slowly dying of starvation. 

The thought was horrible. Perhaps in the one 
fact that Mr. Barwell and I in our self-sufficiency, had 
thought fit to keep to ourselves lay John Stuart’s 
only chance of escape. Possibly, while the whole 
country was being scoured, as 1 might have known, 
in vain, he had been hoping, day after day, that his 
involuntary hiding-place must be discovered. Day 
after day, hope had shone with a fainter light, till 
black despair had extinguished it utterly. As star- 
vation slowly, but relentlessly, pursued its cruel 
course, he had, perchance, cried to heaven to put a 
period to his agony. 

And all that time the one thing that might put the 
searchers on the right track had lain hidden up in 
the minds of Mr. Barwell and myself. In that case 
I felt, disguise it as I might, that his death would lie 
at our door. 

In a fever of fear I scrutinized the walls, turning 
over in my mind as I did so the mysterious entries 
in the diary. There was nothing in them particular- 
ly favorable to the theory, but there was nothing ab- 
solutely against it. The reference to a glimmering 
of the light ” and ‘‘ a voice indistinct but unmistak- 
able ” were inexplicable ; but so they were in any 
case. The “failure out of doors” might apply to 
some external examination or measurement of the 
house. Could it be that he had discovered a hidden 
chamber occupied by some weird undying inhabitant ? 
The whole affair was so incomprehensible that it was 


Prologue. 


33 


out of the question to strain at any theory however 
wiki and unreasonable. 

Eagerly, almost fiercely, I searched the walls ; but 
I could find no trace of any opening. I hunted for 
a hidden spring, but found no sign of one. I pressed 
upon each panel in turn, but all were firm ; not a 
creak even gave evidence of looseness in any one. I 
beat upon them loudly with my clenched hands, but 
each sounded dull and solid. This last, it was true, 
was of no importance, for if the cries and blows of 
John Stuart, maddened by anguish, were inaudible 
from within, how much more so my less powerful 
efforts. 

At last I desisted and sent for a carpenter. To- 
gether we went over the entire wall surface again, 
but he declared at the end that there was not a sign 
of a hidden opening, and I had to rest content with 
the assurance that if such an one did exist it was ut- 
terly undisco verable from the outside. 

On reflection, I concluded that there was no such 
thing ; for if a skilled carpenter could not find it, it 
was most unlikely that Stuart had, search as he might. 
It was an immense relief to me when I had satisfied 
myself of this. 

With some difficulty I persuaded Mrs. Wilkins to 
accept the rent for the year, and having witnessed 
her mark to a receipt, for she was unable to write, 1 
left the house. 

As I returned slowly up the hill to the bank, in 
order to report to Mr. Barwell, I turned the matter 
over in my mind for the thousandth time. The little 
glimmering of light that I thought I had detected. 


84 


Prologue. 


had been quickly extinguished. Under the circum- 
stances I was glad that it was so. Any solution would 
be better than that one. 

At present, however, there was none. The mys- 
tery of John Stuart’s disappearance was as impene- 
trable as ever. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE RETURN. 

As week after week, and month after month 
rolled by, no news came from John Stuart. No 
hint as to his whereabouts, no shred of evidence as 
to his existence, no clue leading to an elucidation of 
the enigma of his sudden and complete disappearance 
was discovered. 

One by one the searchers, amateur and professional, 
whom the promised reward had inspired with energy, 
relaxed tlieir exertions, and finally gave up the case 
as hopeless, the prize as unattainable. Spring gave 
place to summer, summer to autumn, and when 
Christmas had passed once more, and the anniversary 
of the strange event approached, it had already be- 
come ancient history, and was well nigh forgotten 
by most. 

In large cities sudden disappearances are unfortu- 
nately so common that the interest they excite is 
merely momentary. In a small country town like 
Wickworth the wonder is naturally more enduring; 


Prologue. 


35 


but even there it does not survive the next murder 
or scandal. It is like a stone thrown into a pool — a 
great splash to begin with, ripple after ripple rolling 
to the banks, and when these pass away, all is calm 
again, and you can only gather from the whispering 
of the reeds in the more distant corners that anything 
has occurred to disturb the placid surface. 

So it was with John Stuart. To the majority of 
people he was as if he had never been. Here and there 
in remoter ale houses, the matter still aroused occa- 
sionally a passing interest, in the absence of more ex- 
citing matter, but that was all. In Wick worth, to 
be sure, it was still the custom to relate the facts to 
any new-comer, and to take him down and show him the 
outside of the house where they occurred. But the 
eager crowds who had hastened to gape at the rooms 
themselves, had found some newer attraction and 
wandered elsewhere, leaving Mrs. Wilkins to possess 
her soul in peace. 

But to myself, and to some extent also, I fancy, to 
Mr. Barwell, the affair was as fresh and as full of 
mystery as the first week after its occurrence. Day 
after day, as I sat at my desk, night after night, in the 
solitude of my rooms, I reviewed the circumstances 
again and again. I considered it from every point 
of view. No theory was too mad for me not to give 
it a hearing. But no arrangement of possibilities 
that I could invent would suit all the facts of the 
case. Over and over again I told m3^self that my at- 
tempts were hopeless, that the riddle was insoluble ; 
over and over again I found myself returning uncon- 
sciously to its consideration, and every time my im- 


36 


Prologue. 


imaginatien fell back beaten from every hold by those 
shuttered windows and locked doors. 

It is needless to say that I missed John terribly at 
fifst. I had no notion, until he went, how important 
a part of my life he had become. When I turned 
and saw the stranger at his desk by my side, when I 
started for my now solitary evening walks into the 
country, I felt a sick longing to see his face, to hear 
his voice, and grasp his hand once more. If I had 
been sure that he was dead — if I could have had his 
grave to visit, and could have known that what had 
once been my friend John Stuart lay beneath, I think, 
I would have borne it better. But this vague un- 
certainty harassed me, and my mind flung itself once 
more against the impassable bars of the problem. 

The day after Christmas-day, one week before 
John’s ghostly tenancy of the rooms was to expire, 
I went down to interview Mrs. Wilkins. The worthy 
woman seemed to have taken a great liking to me, 
partly, I fancy, because of my friendship for John, 
partly because of the intense desire I had felt, and 
continued to feel, for some explanation of the matter. 
When I told her that I had made up my mind at the 
end of the year, to take and occupy the missing man’s 
room myself, her face flushed, and her eyes positively 
sparkled with delight. 

“ And right glad I am to hear you say so, sir.” 
she said joyfully. “ I’ve been a wondering in my 
mind, for a long while, what to do about it. “I’m a 
poor woman, and I couldn’t well afford to let ’em lie 
empty. And yet I couldn’t bear to have Mr. Stuart 
a-coming back, and a-finding a stranger in his place.” 


Prologue, 87 

Do you still believe, then, that he will come back, 
Mrs. Wilkins?” I asked sadly. 

“Comeback?” she cried. “And of course he’ll 
come back. Why shouldn’t he ? Where he’s gone, 
and what he’s doing no man can tell, but I feel sure, 
I feel sure, sir, he’ll come back. And when he comes 
in, and finds you a-setting in his old rooms, there’ll be 
a pleasant surprise for him, won’t there now ? ” 

I could see that the good soul was not, in reality, 
half as hopeful as she tried to make out, and was 
speaking, more from a desire to relieve my despond- 
ency, than from inward conviction. But any expres- 
sion of belief in John’s return was cheering, and hav- 
ing settled the terms, concluded the bargain, arranged 
to take possession that day week, I left her, and re- 
turned to the lodgings I was about to quit, with a 
lighter heart in my breast than I had worn for many 
a long month. 

Was she right? I wondered; would the day ever 
come when I should see John Stuart again and hear 
his story ? 

On January the first, 1854, 1 moved my few posses- 
sions and formally entered into occupation of John 
Stuart’s rooms. 

As I sat the first night in his old place, looking on 
the rooms he had known, I felt nearer to him than I 
had done for a long time. Here was the chair in 
which he had sat; there the table at which he had 
written ; this the fireplace at which he had warmed 
himself ; that the couch on which he had stretched 
himself to rest. It was hard to reject the belief that 
the door would presently open and his well-known 


38 


Prologue, 


figure stand upon the threshold. There, surrounded 
by all the familiar details of his daily life, I could not 
convince myself that he had gone forever. The seed 
of hope that Mrs. Wilkins had revived in my breast 
seemed to bud and blossom in that congenial atmos- 
phere. I felt a sure conviction that she was right in 
her intuitions, and that some day he would return. 
He was not, could not be dead. And here, some- 
where under my very hand, if I could but find it, 
was the key of the mystery. Within sight of where 
I sat was the hidden door through which he had van- 
ished. Though I could not discover it, it was there. 

Inspired by the surroundings, I turned once more 
to the points of doubt, but my thoughts wandered 
involuntarily, more to the recollection of John 
Stuart himself, the man as I had known and loved 
liiin, than to his disappearance. Somehow I could 
not shake off the impression that he was there in the 
room with me. I seemed to feel his presence though 
our eyes might not meet, nor our hands touch, and I 
never after succeeded in ridding myself of this idea. 

Undeterred by the failure of my first attempt, I 
diligently searched those rooms again and again for 
some sign of a secret opening. Notan inch of panel- 
ling or flooring escaped my prying eyes and probing 
fingers. Some months elapsed before I was finally 
satisfied that no spring existed wliich had been liid- 
den from me, but discovered by him. At length, 
however, I gave up all investigations, and made up 
my mind to wait and hope. Always to hope, for by 
this time it had become an article of faith with me 
that Stuart would come back, and Mrs. Wilkins, I 


Prologue, 


39 


soon found, really cherished the same conviction. 
Often, as time went on, we would talk of John and 
his return. We two, who almost alone remem- 
bered him, certainly alone thought ever to see him 
again. 

To tell the truth, in the following weeks I began 
to weary rather of Mrs. Wilkins’ confidences and 
opinions on the matter. She had a free and fluent 
tongue, and though I was unwilling to seem to put a 
slight upon a sympathy which took its rise from a 
mutual affection for the missing man, at the same 
time the unceasing flow of conversation which poured 
from her, when once the fountains of her silence were 
unsealed, became occasionally inexpressibly tedious. 
Anxious to avoid hurting her feelings in any way, I 
at last hit upon a delicate compromise. Whenever 
I wished to be alone and undisturbed with my 
thoughts, my books, or my writing, I used to lock 
the door and remain deaf to any summons. 

To begin with, she objected strenuously. Indeed, 
on the first occasion on which she found it locked, 
she thundered on it so continuously and created such 
a turmoil, that I was finally compelled to abandon my 
fortress and open to her. When I liad done so, I 
found her leaning against the door post, pale and 
liaggard. 

“ Why, Mrs. Wilkins ! ” I cried. ‘‘ What on earth 
is the matter? Are you ill?” 

‘‘ Oh, don’t ’ee do it, sir ; don’t ’ee do it,” she re- 
plied, taking no notice of my questions. 

^‘Do what?” I remarked, in some astonishment. 

Lock that door, sir,” she answered. ‘‘ I can’t 


40 


Prologue, 


a-bear to have it locked and you inside. Ever sence 
that night a locked door givers me the sliivers.” 

I laughed at her fears, but I never succeeded in 
reconciling her to the use of the lock. At one time 
she hid the key, but I very quickly compelled her to 
restore it ; and after a while, with a tact somewhat 
unusual in her class, she perceived the meaning of 
the locked door and never came in without previous 
ly asking if I was disengaged. Thenceforth it was 
only locked on rare occasions, when I was particularly 
anxious to be alone. 

Such an occasion was the evening of June the thir- 
tieth. It had been a sultry day, but had turned cooler 
towards the evening. After my tea I went for a 
stroll, and returning in the gloaming, sat down to en- 
joy a pipe and a quiet think. The windows were 
low, and in the recess of each was a broad oaken seat- 
Putting my feet on one of these, I settled myself so 
that I could see what passed in the road and prepared 
myself for an hour of peace 

The room behind me was dark, but the sky was 
still bright with the lingering twilight, a broad sea of 
brilliant green, in which swam a single clear star, 
like a pearl. Before me lay a stretch of lawn, and 
beyond the open iron railing which bounded it, ran 
the road, looking hot and white in the dusk. From 
somewhere among the trees, which rose against the 
sky on the other side, the clear, sweet notes of a be- 
lated thrush thrilled up into the silence. Otherwise 
it was wonderfully, almost oppressively still. Not a 
breath of wind came to rustle the foliage. The tread 
of the occasional passer-by was deadened by the soft 


Prologue, 


41 


white dust that lay thick upon the road, and re- 
mained floating in little clouds long after the foot that 
had disturbed it had passed out of hearing. The bats 
chittered as they wheeled in mazy circles through the 
heavy air. Far away in the distance a single grass- 
hopper shrilled its even song, emphasizing rather 
than disturbing the great hush of dying day. The 
small bustlings and clatterings that Mrs. Wilkins 
gave rise to in her household work, and which were 
generally so obtrusive in the evening quiet, were 
stilled. Silence reigned supreme. 

So sitting, the smoke of my pipe illuminated by a 
faint glow, as that of a volcano by its subterranean 
fires, my thoughts wandered away to John Stuart 

Where was he? What was he doing? When, 
^vhen would he come back? 

I tried to imagine him at the moment advancing 
slowly along the road to Wick worth. Nearer and 
nearer, step after step he came, passing, one after the 
other, old familiar landmarks ; the bridge on which 
we had lounged, the stile at which we had lingered ; 
now he is under the old oak, he has left the mile- 
stone behind him, he is in the road — at the gate — on 
the threshold — here, in the very room ! 

What was that? 

From far, very far away, ringing through the still 
air, came a voice calling on me for help, again and 
again. It was his — John Stuart’s ! 

So vivid was the impression that I started to my 
feet, and was about to rush from the room, shouting 
in reply. But the sudden movement broke the spell 


42 


Prologue. 


of my imaginings, and I sank back into my chair 
again, half laughing at my folly. 

And yet — and yet. Was it fancy, or had I really 
heard it? The more I thought, the more doubtful I 
became, the less able was I to decide the question. 
Reason told me clearly it could not be, but Recollec- 
tion said it had been. Beyond all doubt it was John 
Stuart’s voice, but so altered, and shaken by distress, 
by hopeless despair, that I could never have imagined 
it. Still it rang in my ears, Come to me ! Come to 
me ! Come to me ! ” 

Mentally, I determined that I would. Closing my 
eyes, and withdrawing my thoughts as far as possible 
from the outer world, I let my spirit loose to wander 
whither it would, with but one goal to reach, one 
object to attain — John Stuart. 

At first it roamed vaguely and aimlessly through 
space ; the mystery of his disappearance, the uncer- 
tainty of his whereabouts, hampered and restrained it. 
But, by degrees, it took a more definite direction, as 
a pigeon released circles twice or thrice before start- 
ing on its undeviating course. Concentrating all my 
thoughts, all my will power upon John Stuart, I 
endeavored to draw his mind to mine. Gradually I 
seemed to get a grip on something. I seemed to be 
conscious of his presence, to feel his spiritual hand 
straining indefinitely through the darkness to grasp 
mine. All sights and sounds of earth were forgot- 
ten. Through the dark vaults of space my spirit 
soared seeking for his. My whole body became rigid 
with the mental exertion, as T poured more and more 
will power into the vast unknown. I felt sure that 


Prologue. 


43 


mine was stronger than his, and I knew — I knew 
that I should find liim. So sitting, I either slept, or 
fell into a trance/ 

Suddenly with a start and a shiver I came to 
myself. It was quite dark around me, though the 
heavens were still light with the semi-darkness that 
reigns throughout a summer night, paling th6 stars. 
I felt weak and enfeebled, and was conscious of a 
curious sensation : a feeling that I was not alone, 
that some one else was in the room. But my mind 
was so relaxed after its late efforts that I felt no 
curiosity to rise and see, no inclination to inquire. 
All I wanted was rest. I could have sat as I was, 
gazing vacantly into space, without stirring hand or 
foot, through the long night, until dawn crept slowly 
up the eastern skies. Probably, so enervated was I, 
I should so have sat had I been undisturbed. I was 
filled with perfect peace. 

Suddenly the silence of the room was shivered by 
a sort of gasping sigh from the darkness behind me. 

Flinging all my languor to the winds, I leaped to 
my feet, and turned. 

There in a chair by the empty hearth, half sat, 
half lay, the figure of a man. The room was so dark 
that I could make out neither form nor feature, only 
a dim mass, which I knew to be a man. 

My hair crisped on my head, and my blood chilled 
ill my veins, as I clutched the window curtain to 
prevent my knees giving way beneath me. What 
was it? Who was it? My fear was wild, unreason- 
ing. I could not move, I scarcely dared to breathe. 
As I stood, gazing at that doubtful shape, I heard a 


44 


Prologue, 


foot approaching along the road outside. Nearer and 
nearer it drew, and as it came iny fears retreated 
before it. My breath came freely once more, my 
heart beat at its accustomed pace, and, as it paused at 
the gate, with a long sigh of relief I again stood erect. 

A bi’ight ray of light shone into the room as the 
man lighted the lamp outside, and passed on. Full 
upon that dark form it fell, illuminating every 
feature, and revealing, as I expected, the face of the 
long lost man, John Stuart! 

But, oh, how altered I How different from the 
handsome, healthy face, radiant with life and spirit, 
that I had known I What sufferings had he gone 
through to be so changed in a short eighteen months ? 
His cheeks, that had been so full and ruddy, were 
hollow and deathly pale ; his lips, which had ever a 
responsive smile lingering on them, were drawn and 
colorless ; his eyes were deep sunken in their sockets, 
his hands white and thin. Had eighteen years passed, 
instead of eighteen months, he could not have changed 
more. So frail, so unsubstantial did he appear, that 
I was still uncertain whether it were he or his ghost? 
and I lighted the lamp, which stood on the table, 
before I ventured to move nearer to him. 

His eyes were closed, and his breath seemed to 
struggle with difficulty through his parted lips. 

When the light fell upon him, he half turned, and 
moaned uneasily, his lips trembled, and his face 
twitched. All at once his eyes opened, looking large, 
and black, and unearthly, above his shrunken cheeks. 
He glanced round the room, but, instead of the flash 
of joyful recognition which I anticipated, a ghastly 


Prologue, 


45 


look of horror crossed his face. Slowly his eyes 
travelled on, and I saw an expression of puzzled sur- 
prise slowly growing upon him. At length they 
fell upon me as I stood in the half shadow beside him. 
He shuddered, and then with a little cry leaned for- 
ward. But the next moment he fell back again in 
the chair, and passed his hand twice or thrice across 
his eyes. Presently, he glanced downwards at his 
clothes, gazed at them, felt them, and once more 
turned to me, with a revived hope in his eyes. 

“ What is it ? ” he murmured. “ Where am I ? ” 

‘‘ Why, here,” I said cheerily. ‘‘ In the old house 
at Wickworth.” 

He staggered to his feet with a smothered cry. 

“ Is it you ? Is it you, indeed, old fellow ? ” he 
asked. 

It is I, past doubt,” I answered. 

“ Let me touch, let me feel you,” he cried, and fell 
forward into my arms. 

“ Oh, it is, it is, it is ! ” he murmured again and 
again, half laughing and half crying. After a time, 
when he was somewhat calmer, I put him back into 
the chair, for he was pitifully weak. He sat there for 
some time, holding my hand tightly. 

“ It is you,” he said more than once ; ‘‘ not a 
dream ? Really, and solidly you ? ” 

And he felt my face and clothes again and again, 
to assure himself. 

Suddenly he buried his face in Ids hands, and burst 
into tears. 

‘‘ Oh ! what an escape,” he sobbed. ‘‘ Thank God ! 
What an escape ! ” 


46 


Prologue, 


I was anxious to go for Mrs. Wilkins, partly to tell 
her the joyful news, partly to get her assistance in 
calming and restoring him. But he would not let me 
go. When I attempted to do so, he clung to me in a 
frenzy of terror, like a frightened child to its mother. 

‘‘ No, no ! Hold me close,” he cried. ‘‘ For God’s 
sake, don’t leave me ! Keep me here with you.” 

For a long time I sat by liim, consoling and sooth- 
ing him. I asked him once where he had been in his 
absence, but his only answer was a fresh burst of 
tears and a repetition of his former cry : “ Oh, what 
an escape ! ’’ 

If I attempted to leave him, he trembled fearfully 
and begged me again to liold him close. At last I 
persuaded him, with difficulty, to let me cross the 
room, provided I did not go out of liis sight, and I 
took the opportunity of pouring out a glass of brandy, 
which I made him swallow. 

Gradually he came to himself. He ceased to 
tremble, and seemed to have mastered his fear that I 
should vanish like a dream if he let go of me. 

When he seemed quite calm and thoroughl}^ satis- 
fied of my reality, I asked him once more where he 
had been. He groaned and shook his head. 

‘‘ To-morrow,” he said. ‘‘Don’t ask me now. I’ll 
tell you all about it to-morrow. To-night I want to 
just sit here and talk to you. I shall be strong and 
well to-morrow, and then I will tell you all.” And 
as he spoke he shuddered. 

For upwards of an hour we sat, hand clasped in 
hand, chatting of past times. He asked me several 
very curious questions. Among others, what day of 


Prologue. 


47 


tlie month and what year it was. He was evidently 
completely ignorant of even the most important 
events which had occurred in his absence. He 
had not heard of the Crimean War. Where had he 
been the while ? 

At length I observed in him a growing drowsiness, 
and after one or two dozings and sudden startled re- 
awakenings, he fell into a peaceful slumber, still 
holding my hand. By degrees his grasp relaxed, 
until he released me. 

Then, as I rose softly, with the intention of warn- 
ing Mrs. Wilkins of his re-appearance, I remembered 
that I had locked myself in that evening. 

* John Stuart had returned as mysteriously as he had 
disappeared. 


CHAPTER V. 

A LAST WORD. 

My task is nearly finished. With what difficulty 
and trouble is known only, and of interest only, to 
myself. I am no hand at writing, save banking ac- 
counts, business letters, and such like, and I should 
have preferred to abstain altogether from intruding 
my own uninteresting personality between the reader 
and the following extraordinary story of my late 
friend, John Stuart. It was, however, his particular 
wish, expressed to me on his death-bed, that if ever 
I thought fit to publish his narrative to the world I 
should prelude it with a clear and circumstantial ac- 


48 


Prologue, 


count of his disappearance, as known to me. He 
himself, for reasons which will sufficiently appear in 
due time, was unable to observe what effect it had 
on the public ; and he could not, I am bound to con- 
fess, have chosen any one so well suited to do it in 
his place as myself. 

I was liis best friend, his fellow-clerk in the Wick- 
worth bank, and I conducted the investigations 
which were set on foot at the time by the directors 
of that bank. I, moreover, took the apartments 
from which he had vanished, and it was to me that 
he had first appeared on his return. 

I am unacquainted, as I have said, with the art of 
narrative, and have endeavored merely, to the best, 
of my ability, to state the exact facts of the case 
clearly and straightforwardly. 

Doubtless there are many little details which a 
skilled writer would have worked up and made of 
thrilling interest ; many things which I have thought 
important, which he would have passed over lightly 
or omitted. Of one thing only I am certain. No 
one, whatever his skill, could have told the story 
more truthfully. I have neither exaggerated nor sup- 
pressed anything. As each event transpired, so it is 
set down. If I have wandered unnecessarily it must 
be attributed to my inexperience, and will, I hope, 
be excused. 

If, now that it is finished, the reader should find it 
wearisome or uninteresting I shall not be surprised. 
I knew John Stuart and he did not. The fault, at 
all events, must be laid on his shoulders, who will 
never feel it now, not on mine. 


Prologue, 


49 


I have already said that I had no desire to have 
any hand in this matter, and that it was only at his 
urgent request that I reconciled myself, unwillingly 
to undertaking the job. 

That is my final word of defence. 

The adventure which follows was first told to me 
by Stuart on the morrow of his return. He repeated 
it afterwards to Mr. Barwell and many others, who 
had sorrowed at his loss and rejoiced at his return. 

It was only after constant pressing on their part, 
as well as mine, that he consented finally to write it 
down at length, or rather to dictate, while I wrote it, 
for he, poor fellow, was in far too weak a state of 
health to undergo the actual manual exertion. 

When it was finished I read it over to him, and he 
gave it to me to make what use of it I pleased, assert- 
ing at the same time that it was correct in every par- 
ticular. He drew for me with his own hand a map 
of the island, with the position of the treasure rough- 
ly marked; but since, as will be seen, he was ignor- 
ant of its latitude or longitude, it could only be dis- 
covered by a chance recognition of it from the de- 
scription. I have neither time, means, nor indeed, 
inclination to seek it. It seems to have been one of 
the Carribees, but even this is doubtful. The rebel- 
lion in which he so unconsciously took a part, appears, 
from internal evidence, to have been Wyatt’s disas- 
trous attempt, or in some way connected with it. 

He stipulated that, if I finally saw reason to publish 
it, I should not alter any single fact. He gave me per- 
mission, otherwise, to make ajiv alteration in style 
that I chose. I have consequenuy changed the whole 

4 


50 


Prologue. 


story into the third person, because, though I am 
compelled to write this prologue in the first, I think 
nothing is so irritating as a book in which I’s ” are 
perpetually popj)ing out all over the place. I may 
be peculiar in that opinion, but I rather think not. I 
have, moreover, left out several eulogistic references 
to myself, which my modesty would not permit me 
to print, confining all such mention to the words 
‘‘my best friend,” a title which I can honestly claim. 

With these exceptions, as he dictated it to me, so 
I give it to the world at large. 


The Editor. 


The Story. 


61 


CHAPTER I. 

THE SEED IS SOWN. 

John Stuart, the hero — or, perhaps it would be 
more appropriate to say, the victim — of the following 
strange adventure, was born, and passed the early 
years of his life in Scotland. The incidents of his 
childhood, and the character of his education, are of 
no general interest, excepting in so far as they throw 
light upon the influences which led him into a course 
of speculations of which the final, practical outcome 
proved so disastrous. 

His father was a fairly well-to-do farmer in Skye, 
who was, or considered himself, on somewhat indef- 
inite grounds, a disappointed man, and the natur- 
ally gloomy views which he imbibed from the harsh 
Calvinistic doctrines he professed, were heightened 
and increased by the discontent that grew upon him 
with advancing years. 

He entertained a great opinion of his abilities as a 
preacher, or expounder, and the blood-curdling pic- 
tures of future punishment which he painted for the 
edification of his son, when he in anywise ofi'ended 
against the rigid and impossible code of morality to 
which he was expected to conform, cost that unfortu- 


52 


His Fatal jS access. 


nate infant, for he was little more, many a night of 
sleepless horror. 

Doubtless, could he have flown to the tender care 
and sympathy of a mother, he might have been less 
affected by these dismal foreshadowings of his inevit- 
able fate, but she had unfortunately died in bringing 
him into the world, and his father’s frequent refer- 
ences to that fact when he was thundering comniin- 
ations at the trembling child, had produced at last 
upon his confused comprehension, the impression that 
he was personally responsible, and that her blood 
was upon his head. 

There can be no doubt that such an idea never en- 
tered his father’s mind, but John was so accustomed 
to regard everything he did or said as sinful, to be 
reminded, every hour of the day, that he was a wil- 
ful, erring creature about whose ultimate destination 
there could be little difference of opinion, and his 
father, when once started upon one of his healing 
discourses, was so led away by his own eloquence, 
and the glamour of his own ghastly imaginings, 
that the origin of the misapprehension is easy to 
realize. 

It is impossible to believe that the old man in the 
least understood the effect that his continual threats 
and warnings would have upon the sensitive imagina- 
tion of the boy. His desire was indubitably to be em- 
inently just above all things. It was, he conceived, 
entirely for the boy’s good ; and when he had sent 
him, shivering in an agony of trepidation, up the dark 
staircase to creep to bed in the dark room, he com- 
forted himself with the reflection that he was helping 


HU Fatal Success. 


53 


the good work, and was in a fair way to snatch this 
brand, at least, from the burning. 

John’s only relief from the cheerful admonitions 
of his father, of whom he stood, not unnaturally in 
constant and scarce-concealed dread, lay in the com- 
pany of old Maisie the housekeeper. 

Whether he was much the gainer is perhaps open 
to doubt. 

Her mind, like that of most old Scotch housewives, 
was stored to the brim with ghost lore of the most 
grim and direful character. Story after story, all of 
the most appalling description, would she pour into 
his reluctant ear, until he was almost mad with 
fright. 

He would cower for hours by the kitchen fire, 
torn between his longing to escape from Maisie’s flow 
of gruesome legends, and his growing terror of the 
darkness waiting for him overhead. 

When at last she dismissed him, the interval be- 
tween his forsaking the cheerful glow of the fire, and 
his finding himself safely ehsconsed between the 
blankets, was a period of intense insensate fear. 

Every light or shadow in the hallway, every creak 
or rustle on the stairs was fraught with fearful mean- 
ing. If he crawled slowly there was always some 
unimaginable horror just ahead, if, in sheer despera- 
tion, he ran, he was pursued in his headlong flight 
by shapeless rushing phantoms. When he reached 
his room, happy was he if a faint glimmering of moon- 
light came to relieve the gloom, though even then 
there were invariably awful shadow-haunted corners 
wherein lurked nameless threatening dangers. Oftener 


54 


His Fatal Success, 


however, standing in the centre of the peopled dark- 
ness, he would hastily fling his garments from him, 
and leap from afar into the sheltering bed to elude 
the clutch of the demon couched beneath. 

In short, owing to his father’s want of considera- 
tion, and old Maisie’s indiscretion, the boy’s mind was 
reduced to a most unhealthy state of depression. 
The air around him was thronged with malevolent 
though invisible beings, and the only future he was 
permitted to contemplate was one of unending tor- 
ment. It is small wonder that he became a timid, 
morbidly nervous child. 

As he grew older he, of course, shook off some of 
his fears. His father’s menaces had less influence 
upon him, and Maisie’s stories lost much of their ter- 
ror from repetition, and from the increasing power 
he attained of regarding them from a sounder point 
of view. Not that he ever escaped entirely from his 
belief in his supernatural surroundings ; the impres- 
sion made upon his youthful mind was too lasting 
for that. 

When he was twelve years old an event occurred 
which would have confirmed, had that been neces- 
sary, his convictions on the subject. 

He had, for some time, been in almost daily com- 
panionship with a strange gaunt old shepherd, whom 
he had encountered in his solitary rambles, and who, 
Maisie assured him, had the reputation of being a 
seer. John often plied him with questions on the 
subject, but the old man was very shy of referring to 
it at all. 

He seemed, however, for some reason, drawn to 


iris Fatal Success, 


55 


the lonely boy, and one evening John found him in 
an unusually communicative frame of mind. 

He was seated on a rock at the head of a narrow 
cleft which, bent through the lofty cliffs by some old 
world convulsion, led down to the sea. The sun had 
[ilready set, and it was getting dark when John took 
a seat beside him. 

In answer to John’s persistent requests, he related 
one or two personal experiences of wraiths, and warn- 
ing spirits, and then, fixing his deep-sunken eyes on 
him, said in his broad Scotch accent : 

‘‘ Ye’ll be a bit of a seer yerself, ’am thinking.” 

John assured him that he had never seen anything 
that was not directly attributable to natural causes. 

‘‘ Nae, nae,” he said, ye’re ower young the noo. 
— Bide a wee,” he continued, rising. He took his 
stand behind him, and placing both hands on his 
shoulders, stood for some minutes in silence. 

A peculiar tingling sensation seemed to flow over 
John from the hands firmly gripping him. His 
spirit seemed to be lifted from within him, and to 
float abroad upon the evening air. A strange feeling 
of lightness, like that breathed in on lofty mountain 
heights, possessed him, a sort of spiritual intoxica- 
tion. 

‘‘ Look, look, mon ! ” cried the shepherd suddenly. 

D’ye see naething ? ” 

John looked down the ravine which sloped away 
rapidly from their feet, and saw climbing towards 
them, among the boulders that littered the glen from 
side to side, a figure he had not observed before. It 
appeared to advance slowly and with difficulty. It 


56 


His Fatal Success, 


was still too far away to be recognizable, but there 
seemed to John to be something familiar about it, 
though it was curiously wrapped in an indefinite long 
white garment reaching from the chin to the feet. 
When it was near enough to be easily distinguished 
the head, that had been bowed as the man clambered 
over the rocks, was lifted, and John looking on the 
face knew it for that of his father. 

With a cry of consternation, the shepherd snatched 
his hands from John’s shoulders, and on the instant 
the figure was no longer there. The ground on which 
it had been standing was more open than the rest of 
the glen, and there was apparently no hiding-place at 
hand, yet it had gone. 

The shepherd, without another word, hurried John 
away from the spot. His wondering conjectures as to 
what his father was doing there so strangely dressed, 
and where he had gone to, met with no response. 
His companion proceeded rapidly in silence^ mutter- 
ing to himself, and shaking his head. 

When they parted, where the path led down to the 
Manse, he enjoined John strictly to say nothing to 
any one of what he had seen, and his surprise at the 
old man’s urgency was increased by overhearing him 
murmur to himself : 

“ Puir bairn ! Puir, fatherless, orphan bairn ! ” 

As John turned at the door of the house, he saw 
him still standing clear cut against the evening sky, 
as if watching him, but his parting wave of the hand 
called forth no salutation in reply. 

He had pledged his word not to mention the mat- 
ter, and manfully held his tongue, though he was 


His Fatal Success. 


57 


burning to ask Maisie’s explanation of the affair. 
He was in far too great awe of his father to venture 
to question him as to his presence in the glen. 

His curiosity was soon enough dispelled. 

Three days afterwards his father was found dead 
at the foot of the headland which bordered the glen 
on the south, and was carried painfully and with 
difficulty up it, and across the intervening ridge to 
the Manse. 

Whether he had slipped and fallen, or whether in 
a frenzy of the religious insanity, which had been 
rapidly growing on him of late, he had flung himself 
over, was never known. He was dead, and John 
needed no one to tell him that the figure he had seen 
had been his father’s wraith. 

Never again in the whole course of his life was he 
to forget that evening. If at any time the sceptical 
arguments of his companions shook for a moment his 
confidence in the reality of supernatural appearances, 
that scene rose clearly before him, and swept away 
his doubts. 

Once more he sat, the strange old man gripping 
his shoulders from behind, gazing out between the 
frowning headlands at the twilight sky and sea. 
Once more he saw, painfully crawling in the grim 
shadowed abyss at his feet, that shroud-clad figure, 
and as his father’s pale stern face was turned to meet 
his, a voice arose in his soul crying : 

How can I choose but believe ? ” 

The seed that had been sown by that event in his 
mind, already ploughed and harrowed by Maisie’s 
traditions and his father’s burning words, quickened 


58 


His Fatal Success, 


and lived. With a reserve that was characteristic of 
him he never told the story to any one, not even to 
his best friend, and in spite of the strong belief that 
was in him, he was always unwilling to discuss the sub- 
ject of a spiritual world. He shrank from tlie con- 
temptuous sneers that would have greeted the relation 
of his own experience, and, as he was consequently 
unable to give any explanation of his firm faith, lie 
carefully avoided the matter, in conversation. He 
was, however, given to reading and tliinking deeply 
about anything that interested him, and as he grew 
older, and his mind developed under education, he 
gave more and more of his thoughts to the considera- 
tion of the subject. 

In spite of the prophecy of the old sliepherd, he 
had never since that evening seen any vision, or 
obtained even the most fleeting glimpse of the unseen 
world. Althougli lie had taken considerable trouble 
to put himself in the way of such a revelation his 
efforts had never been rewarded. But continual 
failures did not daunt him. 

He still believed that he was fey,, or as the shep- 
herd had expressed it, ‘ a bit of a seer,’ and he never 
doubted that the day would come when he would 
find himself able to communicate freely and without 
hindrance, with the inhabitants of the unseen. 

Had he but known what was in store for him, 
could he have foreseen to what a dreadful goal his 
searchings after the unknown would lead him, had he 
conceived the faintest notion of what terrible misery 
the satisfaction of his longings would bring him, he 
would have flung the whole subject from him with 


His Fatal Success, 


59 


loathing, and fled the merest thought of it with 
dread. 

If any one contemplates undertaking the task John 
Stuart accomplished, let him pause ere it is too late, 
lest he meet with even a worse fate. It is not every 
one who can hope to be rescued by a friendly spirit, 
as he was rescued. 

If this narrative should act as a timely warning to 
one single soul, should turn one mind from that too 
fascinating line of speculation, should stay one rash 
hand from experimenting with such dangerous mat- 
ters, it will not have been written in vain. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE BUD BLOSSOMS. 

The interval between Stuart’s childhood and man- 
hood may be passed over briefly. There was nothing 
ill it to distinguish it from the usual run of school 
and college life. He was, to all outward appearance, 
the ordinary schoolboy, and developed in time into 
the ordinary collegian. The income derived from 
the farm that he had inherited from his father was 
sufficient to support the expenses of his education, 
though not large enough to enable him to lead a life 
of idleness as a man. 

Consequently, at the age of five-and-twenty, he 
applied for, and obtained the position of junior clerk 


60 


His Fatal Success, 


in the Wickworth and County Bank, and took up 
his residence in that town. 

Of his works and amusements there it is unneces- 
sary to speak ; they were those of an ordinary young 
man in a small country town. It is his inner life, his 
mental development that calls for notice. 

In his search for lodgings on his first arrival he 
was fortunate enough to secure surroundings singular- 
ly in sympathy with his spiritual aspirations. In an 
old house, dating from the fifteenth century, on the 
outskirts of the town, just at the foot of the hill on 
which it was built, he obtained two rooms exactly 
suited to his requirements. The house had seeming- 
ly remained unaltered since the day it was finished, 
and some of the furniture in his apartments looked as 
if it had never been moved, since the original proprie- 
tor had installed it where it harmonized so admirably 
with the panelled walls, and oak beams of the ceiling. 

Here, if anywhere, Stuart thought, he would find 
an atmosphere favorable to the cultivation of that 
power of communication with the ghost world, which 
he believed himself to possess, and ardently desired 
to mature. It was, to use a common phrase, the very 
place for a ghost. 

For a long time his hopes in this direction were 
doomed to disappointment. All through the spring 
and summer he watched and waited in vain. Not a 
sign or sound of anything supernatural gratified his 
anticipations. He first occupied the rooms in March, 
but it was not until the warm twilight of the August 
evenings that he seemed to be nearing the object of 
his ambitions. Even then the indications were so 


His Fatal Success, 


61 


faint, so entirely vague and uncertain, that he was 
doubtful whether his fancy were not playing tricks 
upon him. So indefinite was the first intimation he 
received that it is almost impossible to put it into 
words. 

It appeared to him, as he sat in the silent room, 
that there was, from time to time, a kind of tremor in 
the air around him ; it was too slight to be called an 
agitation ; it resembled, rather, the quivering of the 
atmosphere on a hot day, made sensible to the soul 
instead of visible to the eyes. 

The first time that he was aware of it, he attribut- 
ed it to the jar of a very distant explosion, or the 
vibration caused by a heavily laden wagon far away. 
It chanced that on his table stood a vase full of plumey 
grass so delicate that the lightest breath of air 
stirred its silvery tassels. Fixing his eyes on these 
he waited for a recurrence of the sensation. He re- 
mained for some time in silence, scarcely drawing 
breath, his whole soul watching, until his eyes grew 
dim. Suddenly it came again a faint — faint shiver, but 
not a plume of the bunch before him trembled. 

After a time, when the feeling had occurred 
frequently, always at shorter intervals and with in- 
creasing force, he began to realize that it was internal 
not external, spiritual not physical, within himself 
not in the surrounding air. It was something, as yet 
he knew not what, that appealed to him alone. It 
acted, he told liimself, in his own mental atmosphere, 
not in the actual one in whicli lie lived and breathed. 
Then for the first time flashed upon him the light 
which was destined to lead him to his doom. 


62 


His Fatal Success, 


It came, as the first intimations of events fated to 
be the turning point of destiny frequently do, by 
chance. 

He was a musician by nature, and, possessing a 
moderate income in addition to his salary, he was 
able to gratify and cultivate his tastes in that direc- 
tion. He played well on the piano, and passably on 
the violin. 

One evening, early in September, when the peculiar 
trembling sensation had lost its novelty but not its in- 
terest, he was seated at his piano playing softly to 
himself. His violin lay on the instrument close at 
hand, and he noticed that when he struck the notes 
to which it was tuned, its strings palpably quivered. 
If he played loudly they throbbed and muimiured 
like living things, but when his hands strayed lightly 
and listlessly over the keys, the vibration was so slight 
as to be perceptible rather than visible. Unconscious- 
ly it suggested to him the feeling he had so frequently 
experienced of late. The resemblance struck him 
like a blow. 

He rose, and taking up the violin, he stood with 
his back to the empty fire place, turning it over and 
over in his hands, as he turned the thoughts it had 
suggested over and over in his mind. 

With a sudden and reasonless impulse he raised it 
to his shoulder, and drew the bow smartly across it, 
calling forth from it a long clear note, and sharply, 
from a glass that stood on the shelf behind him, 
sprang an answering note in unison. 

He laid the instrument aside, and as the ringing of 
the glass died away, he sat down to arrange his ideas. 


Ills Fatal jSiteoess, 


63 


He had at last, he believed, found the path he 
sought. 

‘‘ Everything in nature,” he reasoned, “ is tuned to 
some accord. When that note is struck, by an inex- 
orable law, it vibrates in unison. When it is sounded 
loudly, or near at hand, it responds with no uncer- 
tain voice ; if it is soft or very far away, the answer- 
ing throb is so slight as to be inaudible and even 
invisible. That, I feel sure, is the reason of the sen- 
sation I have had so often lately. If the law is so 
invariable in the physical world, why should it not 
apply also to the spiritual ? ” 

“It must,” he cried, rising and rapidly pacing the 
room in the excitement of his inspiration. “ It does 
— I feel sure that it does.” 

The more he reflected upon the matter, the more 
certain he became that he had discovered the true 
solution of the problem. Somewhere, in that mys- 
terious world he wished to enter, a spirit wandered 
in unison with his own. Either its atmosjjhere was 
very far removed from his, or the aflinity between 
them was at present of the slightest. In any case, 
lie was convinced, from the increasing power and 
frequency of the sensation, that the obstacle, what- 
ever it might be, was to be overcome. 

It may not be impertinent to state here, as con- 
cisely as possible, the metaphysics of existence which 
John had evolved from reading and observation. 

Every human being, he maintained, existed in, and 
because of a mental atmosphere entirely his own. 
His physical environment was part, though by no 
means an essential part, of that atmosphere, for it 


64 


His Fatal Success. 


was possible for any one to partially detach himself 
from it. Thus a man’s body may be seated in Lon- 
don, while he himself is, to all intents and purposes, 
in Edinburgh, and he can pass instantaneously, an- 
nihilating time and space, from one spot to the other. 
This faculty is conventionally known as memory, or 
imagination ; but John was convinced that the full 
importance of its meaning was far from being recog- 
nized. 

If there be company in the room in which he is 
seated he is unconscious of their presence, and 
neither hears nor sees them. He is in what is known, 
more truthfully than many realize, as a state of ab- 
sence of mind. 

The mental atmospheres of no two beings corre- 
spond exactly, but when they are thrown very much 
together, Avhen the two are in close affinity, their at- 
mospheres may assimilate so thoroughly as to be 
nearly, though never quite, the same. Have not 
cases been known in which the mental atmospheres 
of two individuals have been in such intimate har- 
mony that each was conscious of the actions and 
thoughts of the other wh^n thousands of miles of 
mere terrestrial space have 'separated them ? 

It was his conviction th^bt by a sufficiently power- 
ful exercise of will, a man could draw the mental at- 
mosphere of another into such harmony with his own, 
and so compel him, for a time at least, to see with 
his eyes and hear with his ears. Thus, when the old 
shepherd placed his hands on John’s shoulders, he re- 
moved liim, by an effort of will, into his atmosphere, 
and enabled him to distinguish a figure which was in- 


His Fatal Success, 


65 


visible to him when in his own. If this could be 
done partially, why not altogether? If it could be 
brought about by the exercise of another’s will, why 
not by his own ? These were the problems he de- 
voted himself to investigating. 

It is impossible to deny that there are numerous 
well-authenticated instances of apparitions which 
have been visible and sometimes audible, though in 
few and doubtful cases tangible, to the spectator. Is it 
not natural to conclude that in numerous cases these 
visitants are present, though, owing to the lack of the 
necessary sympathy, tliey remain invisible and in- 
audible ? Since, then, it is possible for a man to be 
in the presence of others who are unconscious of his 
presence, it is more than probable that others might 
be in his presence without any knowledge of the fact 
on his part. 

As a general rule, the spiritual visitor has been 
one whose previous intimacy with the person visited 
has been so close as to materially assist the harmon- 
izing of the different mental atmospheres ; but there 
are important exceptions. In such cases, John 
argued, the apparition, or ghost, as it is commonl}" 
called, can only have entered the other’s mental at- 
mosphere of its own volition, aided, doubtless, by an 
innate affinity in the other 

‘‘Tf, in short,” he argued, “it is practicable for an- 
other, who has never been part of my surroundings, 
to introduce himself into my mental atmospliere, 
what is there to prevent my conveying myself into 
the atmosphere of another, for whom I was previously 
non-existent ? ” 


5 . 


66 


Ris Fatal ^Success. 


Somewhere in space,” he concluded, ‘‘there is 
evidently a spirit whose mental atmosphere is, as yet 
very imperfectly, in accord with mine. My object 
must be to increase and strengthen that harmony.” 

When, after some weeks of cogitation, he had rea- 
soned himself into the conviction that his theory was, 
in the main, correct, he determined to beat down, if 
possible, the barriers that opposed him. 

On the twenty-sixth of September he noted in his 
diary : 

“ Have determined to make the attempt.” 

His first efforts were devoted merely to augment- 
ing the intensity of the sensation, and in this he suc- 
ceeded with very little difficulty. By fixing his 
mind firmly on the subject and banishing all wander- 
ing tlioughts, by courting and inviting the feeling, 
he so far increased his powers of appreciating it that 
when it came his spirit shook within him like a reed 
in the wind, and even his body shivered in sympathy, 
as it does when, according to the old saying, “ a 
goose is walking over one’s grave.” 

Having advanced so far, he next set himself to 
compel the emotion, to force it to come to him, in- 
stead of simply waiting to receive it. His only success 
at first lay in the greater frequency of the visits, but 
in time he managed to produce them, now and then, 
by the exercise of his will ; gradually lie obtained 
such complete mastery over his mind that he could, 
whenever he wished, bring on the mental tremor, 
and he became certain that somewhere in space an- 
other spirit was shaken in response. 

The evening was the only time when he had suffi- 


His Fatal Success. 


67 


cient leisure and solitude for these mental exercises, 
and he spent nine of them before he arrived at the 
desired perfection. But on October the fifth he was 
so satisfied with his progress, that he resolved to try 
at once to bring the mental atmosphere of the other 
so far into harmony with his as to render it visible to 
his eyes. Seated in silence in the dim twilight of his 
room, he gave his whole soul to the effort. Detach- 
ing, as far as in him lay, his thoughts from all sub- 
lunary affairs he strove to draw the spirit to him. 
But he found himself unable to attain to the desir- 
able height of spiritual exaltation. He could not 
sufficiently dismiss the actual. All sorts of petty 
sounds disturbed him. The distant barking of a dog, 
a footstep on the road, or the cry of a boy from the 
town distracted his attention, and brought his mind 
fluttering to earth like a tethered bird. Finally, the 
entrance of his landlady with the lamp shattered the 
spell, and he gave up the attempt in disgust. He 
felt weak and unstrung, and despairingly entered in 
his diary, before retiring to rest, the curt, but dis- 
heartening sentence : 

“ Failure, complete and utter.” 

Undeterred, however, by this reverse, he began 
once more the following evening to train his mind in 
the right direction, with ever-growing success. The 
sensation, as long as he remained in the room in 
which he had first experienced it, became at length 
continuous, and merged at last by imperceptible de- 
grees into the settled assurance of some other 
presence in the room. After a time, this was so 
marked that he could tell with precision in what part 


68 


His Fatal Success, 


of the room it was, and follow, mentally, all its move- 
ments. He now became certain that Ids final success 
was merely a matter of time. Constantly bestowing 
his attention on the one object of forcing himself into 
harmony with the other, was slowly, but surely ad- 
vancing him to the fulfillment of his desires. 

At times he would speak aloud to the mysterious 
presence, but he obtained no response, and he knew 
that his voice was at present inaudible in the other’s 
atmosphere. But he continued to hope, and on No- 
vember the first, in reply to Ids usual question 

Who are you ? ” After a long pause, there came 
back a faint, incomprehensible rejoinder. It was like 
a voice coming from very far away — a mere inarticu- 
late murmur, as of one imperfectly heard through a 
telephone. But though the sense was undistinguish- 
able, the sound was unmistakable. 

He had studied with care all the books he could 
procure which bore on the subject of his experiments, 
and he observed that the adepts who were the most 
expert in the art of withdrawing from the outer life 
into a trance, laid great stress on the necessity of 
abstinence, and the mortification of the fleshly envel- 
ope. Perhaps his too robust physical constitution 
was the cause of his continued failure. He proceeded 
at once to put this expedient into practice, and little 
by little, reduced his daily allow^ance of provision. 

The effect was shortly appreciable from the greater 
power of self-absorption and the higher mental sub- 
limation he was able to attain. 

On November the seventeenth, when he had by 
various stratagems, avoided taking any nourishment. 


His Fatal Success. 


69 


save water, for four days, the answer when he spoke 
came back so clearly and quickly that, though he was 
still unable to distinguish the actual words, he knew 
that he was much nearer his aim. 

For a whole month he continued this self-denial, 
taking no more food than was absolutely essential to 
support existence. He had been of a strong, sturdy 
temperament, and it took him some time to reduce 
himself to a sufficiently ethereal condition, but he 
succeeded at length, to the grief and amazement of 
his landlady and his best friends, who were beginning 
to express serious alarm at his pining away so rapidly. 
It was with the greatest difficulty that he prevented 
them from calling in medical advice. 

On December the 26th, about ten at night, he 
started for a solitary walk, and after an hour’s brisk 
exercise, he found himself in an open space, known 
generally as Cricnell Common, which lay rather less 
than four miles to the south of Wick worth. He was 
warm with walking and somewhat exhausted, as his 
late system of abstention had considerably diminished 
his endurance, so he sat himself down for a short 
time to rest. 

The intense silence affected him powerf ull3^ Above 
him the stars rolled silently on their appointed paths 
around the Pole star, while from the valley which 
stretched away at his feet, not a sound rose to dis- 
turb the stillness. In the distance the lights of 
Wick worth crept in lines of fire up the hill, on which 
the town stood, but he was too far off to hear the 
faintest murmur from its streets. 

Here, he thought, was surely the place to make a 


70 


His Fatal Success, 


final and successful attempt. Alone under the stars, 
with not a whisper to disturb him, he must succeed. 

He managed, with more than usual facility, to ab- 
stract his mind from the present, but when it was 
free to journey whither it would, instead of soaring 
into space, it persisted in flying to the room he had 
left behind him, like a bird to its nest, and all his 
efforts to dislodge it were fruitless. Finally he aban- 
doned the struggle once more, and reached home, half 
frozen, to enter in his record : — 

Out of doors a failure.” 

In despite of his hopefulness he was beginning to 
despair of complete success, and to weary of the con- 
tinual mental exertion, and bodily privation that his 
project entailed. At one time he was almost decided 
to give it up altogether, to put the idea behind him 
entirely, and to return again to his former pursuits 
and habits of life. 

It seemed a pity, after having suffered so much, 
and so nearly reached the summit of his ambition, to 
relinquish all hopes of it ; and, as the ruined gam- 
bler thinks always that one more chance would in- 
fallibly bring him fortune, so Stuart determined to 
give himself one more trial, to make one great and 
final effort, and, if then he was still met by failure, 
to leave it unattempted forever. 

For five days he found himself too worn-out men- 
tally to be capable of suificient self-concentration, 
but by carefully abstaining from all thoughts on tlie 
subject for that period, he brought liimself once more 
into what he felt to be a suitable frame of mind. 

On the thirty-first of December, 1852, he retired to 


Ris Fatal Success. 


71 


his room about half-past ten, and prepared himself 
for a last endeavor, a final essay, having previously 
written in his diary, as he said to himself too truth- 
fully, alas ! for the last time : 

Determined to make the final attempt to-night.’’ 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE FRUIT RIPENS. 

Strange as it may appear, John had never con- 
sidered during the three months through which his 
experiments had extended, that he was completely 
ignorant of the consequences success in his attempt 
might entail. 

The idea, when it at last occurred to him, was 
rather alarming, but he would not permit himself to 
be frightened from his purpose by a danger which 
he persisted in assuring himself was trifling. As he 
could not, however, deny that tliere was a certain 
amount of risk, he determined to take every possible 
precaution. 

Before finally commencing operations he sealed up 
a year’s rent for his rooms in a packet which he de- 
posited in a drawer of the cabinet that stood between 
the windows, leaving on the table a note to his land- 
lady, containing the necessary directions. That being 
done he felt more at his ease. 

Having carefully closed and barred the shutters to 


His Fatal Success. 


72 

prevent, as far as possible, the penetration of any dis- 
turbing noises from without, he sat down, and closing 
his eyes, proceeded for the last time to endeavor to 
attract the other’s mental atmosphere within his own. 

For a long time he met with even less than his 
usual amount of success. Something seemed to 
weigh upon him and tie him down to earth. He en- 
deavored vainly to abstract his mind. He first 
thought that it was the sense of peril, but when he 
had succeeded in putting all thoughts of that away 
from him, his spirit still seemed fettered, as with 
wings of lead. 

Giving up the attempt for the moment he devoted 
his thoughts to the consideration of this hitherto un- 
encountered obstacle. Reviewing all the previous 
difficulties which he had experie^^ced he could find 
no one which was of sufficient importance to produce 
such an unlooked for effect. The only thing to which 
he could attribute it was the fear of interruption. 
It was hardly likely that such an influence should 
affect him so strongly then for the first time, but at 
all events it was easily remedied. 

He securely locked and bolted both the doors, and, 
as a final and additional assistance, he extinguished 
the lamp and took his seat in the now absolute dark- 
ness and silence of the room. 

That he had been right in his conjecture as to the 
nature of the impediment, was at once proved by the 
ease with which he now managed to advance through 
all the preliminaiy stages of his quest. At once he 
became conscious of the Presence, and it felt, some- 
how, nearer to him than it had ever done before. 


Sis Fatal Success, 


73 


Previously, though it seemed to be in the room, yet 
at the same time it was at an immense distance 
from him, but now it stood apparently at his very 
elbow. 

Encouraged by this improvement, he turned his 
will-power upon it, as if it were an actual personality, 
which he was striving to bring under his own influ- 
ence. 

Suddenly a single slender flame of fire shot from 
the darkness behind him, and sped onwards as if into 
illimitable depths of space before liim. Another 
followed, and then another, until the whole atmos- 
phere was filled with fleeting lines of light, coming 
from all directions but all converging to one spot in 
the fathomless obscurity. 

His state of mind at this time was altogether inex- 
plicable. He was conscious of the light, but he knew 
that he saw without seeing, and thought without 
thinking. He was, and at the same time, he was 
not John Stuart. He realized that his mind had at 
length left its merely earthly surroundings and was 
floating in the vast void of the unknown. From the 
height to which he had soared he looked with pity 
and contempt upon the poor crawling insect he had 
been ; and yet he was perfectly aware all the while 
that he was that same John Stuart and no other. 
He had succeeded in entirely detaching, temporarily 
at least, his mental atmosphere from its purely carnal 
confines; should he now be able to draw to him that 
other that he sought ? 

Presently he saw far, far away a faint sphere of 
light which appeared to be gradually approaching 


74 


His FafaJ Success, 


him, growing brighter as it came, though he was 
doubtful at the time whether, in reality', it was mov- 
ing towards him, or whether he w'as unwittingly glid- 
ing to it. 

Thicker and faster the fiery shafts dashed past him 
and darted into the glowing mass. As it drew 
nearer, he perceived that it was very bright in the 
centre, but paled towards its outer edge, which faded 
away imperceptibly into the darkness, and which 
seemed to pulsate, contracting and expanding with 
a regular uniform motion. At length it touched him, 
and, without producing any sensation, surrounded 
and enveloped him in a luminous mist. As he ap- 
proached tlie brilliant core the light grew more and 
more vivid around him: strange chords of music, 
harmonious but without tune, swelled and died away 
through space, in another moment the nucleus of 
the sphere touched and entered into his breast. 

A wrenching tearing pain seized upon him ; for 
an instant he suffered indescribable torment, and 
than all became blackly dark. 

After an unmeasured space of soundless, sightless 
night, he became aware of a ringing, as of bells, in 
his ears. He opened his eyes wearily and saw, 
shining far above him, a single clear stai\ He 
seemed, from his position, to be reclining in a chair, 
but he could not have been more unconscious of any 
physical contact had he been seated on a cloud ; and, 
although he was so situated that he could not see 
the place he was in, lie knew it to be the room in 
which he lived. 

He liad then failed again ! A sense of bitter dis- 


His Fatal Success. 


75 


appointment, of unreasoning anger filled him at the 
thought- 

He was utterly fatigued and exliausted, and felt 
far too weak to do more than rest as he was, gazing 
blankly at the star above him, possessed solely by 
disgust and irritation at his defeat. 

The peal of bells rang out merrily, now loud and 
clear, now borne faint and far away upon the breeze, 
but they excited no interest in his mind. He knew 
them well; they were the Wickworth bells, and were 
ringing in the New Year. 

There was no room for doubt. He had tried for 
the last time, and had failed once more. All his 
efforts, all his privations had been wasted and thrown 
away; never again, he determined with rancorous 
discontent, would he expend a thought on so futile a 
task. 

He remained thus for a long time, almost enjoying 
the feeling of utter mental and physical lassitude, 
too tired to move, too weary to think, aimlessly 
watching the star. 

Suddenly, from it, as it were, a thought plunged 
into the unthinking serenity of his mind, and shatter- 
ed it into fragments. How was it that he could see 
it when, with his own hands, he had shuttered and 
barred the windows ? 

His mind worked slowly, and with such difficulty 
that it took him some time to appreciate the full 
meaning of this discovery, but when he did under- 
stand he trembled with a doubtful emotion. Was it 
hope or fear ? 

The next moment another circumstance, that he 


76 


His Success. 


had not previously noticed attracted his attention. 
There was a light of some kind in the room behind 
him. 

Without being conscious of any movement of his 
own initiation, he found himself on his feet, facing 
the familiar room. 

Familiar? Surely not. It was the same, and yet 
in many details it was very different. A feeling of 
sick horror began to creep over him as he gazed. 
What was this place ? Why was this room so well- 
known and yet so unrecognizable ? Where was he ? 
The bells of Wickworth rang cheerfully in his ears, 
but this was not his home as he had known it. What 
was the meaning of it all ? 

The cabinet he knew so well stood in its accustom- 
ed place between the windows, but the china vases 
that had been upon it had disappeared. The windows 
themselves were curtainless, and the floor uncarpeted. 
The table was littered, as usual, with books and pa- 
pers, but the books were curious old-fashioned ones 
such as he had never possessed, and the writing on 
the parchments was execrable, very different indeed 
from his own neat clerkly hand. The lamp was gone, 
and the room was illuminated by two coarse tallow 
candles standing in wrought iron candlesticks upon the 
mantlepiece. This, and the shelves of the oak cup- 
board which still stood in the corner, were covered 
with a variety of strangely fashioned vessels of glass 
and metal. The door of the room beyond, which he 
had previously locked, stood open, and the furniture 
within, as far as he could make it out, was unfamiliar. 

The rest of the appointments, Avith one exception. 


His Fatal Success, 


77 


were equally unknown to him. This exception was 
a high-backed oak chair, which was a favorite seat of 
his, and which now stood in front of the fireplace in 
such a position that its back only was visible to him. 
The grate was gone, and in place of the black 
coals of his burned-out fire, a pile of logs blazed 
cheerily upon the brazen andirons which stood upon 
the hearth. 

Slowly, marking each alteration he encountered, 
John moved round the room towards the fireplace, 
and, as he advanced, became aware, first of the feet 
then of the legs, and finally of the entire figure of a 
queerly clad man seated in the chair. 

His heart leaped within him. He had then suc- 
ceeded after all ! This was the ghost made visible to 
him at last. This room was assuredly a part of the 
mental atmosphere of each, one of the links of the 
chain that had drawn them together. 

The man appeared to be wrapped in somewhat un- 
easy slumbers, and John was able to examine him at 
his leisure. 

He must be, as far as he could judge, between fifty 
and sixty years of age, and of a vicious and dissipated 
countenance. His lips were thin and venomous look- 
ing, his nose strongly arched, and his eyebrows met 
above it. His eyes were deeply sunken, and too 
near together to be pleasant. His head was nearly 
bald, and he wore a thick gray mustache, fiercely 
twisted upwards at the ends. His whole face was 
strangely lined and wrinkled, and he looked altogether 
uncommonly malevolent and wicked. 

The most conspicuous thing about him, howevei*. 


78 


His Fatal Success* 


at a first casual glance was liis yellowness. He ap- 
peared to be all yellow. 

His face was yellow. The quaintly cut jerkin he 
wore was yellow ; so were his shoes, and his long 
thin legs were cased in yellow stockings. 

John could not help wondering what there could 
be in common between such a spirit and himself. He 
concluded, when he had finished his examination, 
that this was not at all the kind of ghost he had 
wished tp raise, and determined to dismiss him as 
soon as possible. 

The fact of his having brought his faded old-world 
surroundings with him was embarrassing. But, hav 
ing summoned him, there could be no difficulty in 
dismissing him, after an interview wliich he resolved 
should be of the shortest. 

He was certainly far from an agreeable object as 
he slept. He seemed to be suffering from a very bad 
kind of nightmare, as his troubled breathing and 
stifled moans indicated. His face worked convulsive- 
ly, and he occasionally grinned horribly, exposing 
his yellow teeth. 

There was something rather weird and exciting in 
thus standing at his ease, watching this evil-looking 
spirit with the nightmare. 

But John was of a merciful and kindly disposition, 
and was unwilling to see even so ill-favored a ghost 
in suffering, when it was in his power to relieve it. 

He was about to advance, and rouse him by shaking 
him by the shoulders when it occurred to him that, 
this being a phantom, he would be unable to do so, 
so he spoke instead. 


His Fatal Success, 


79 


Who are you ? ’’ he said, his voice sounding 
strangely thin and hollow. 

The only effect seemed to be an increase in the 
throes of the unfortunate being, who now frowned 
abominably. 

‘‘ Who are you ? ” said he, once more, raising his 
voice. 

The only answer was a snort, and a gasp. 

Once more he repeated his question, this time with 
the full force of his lungs. 

A convulsion ensued which brought the man in 
yellow to his feet with a bound, and waking, he fixed 
his dazed eyes on John, who shuddered with loath- 
ing as he met their gaze. 

The very whites of his eyes were yellow. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. 

For some time the man in yellow stood staring at 
John with half-awakened eyes, and then a wave of 
diabolical joy swept over his evil countenance. 

“At last!” he cried, as he flung his hands above 
his head with an uncouth gesture, “ I have succeeded 
at last. 

“Succeeded?” said John in surprise,” in what 
pray ? ” 

“ In what quotha ! ” answered the other, “ know 
you not tliat? Your very presence here, methinks, 
should acquaint you.” 


80 


His Fatal Success, 


“ My presence here ! ” replied John, I see nothing 
extraordinary in that. Yours is more remarkable, I 
should liave said.’’ 

Mine ! ” said the spirit, “ why so ? I am ever 
here.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, I know that,” said John, ‘‘I have felt 
your propinquity for a long while.” 

Have you, in good sooth?” was the answer. 

That is passing strange. Wherefore did you not 
appear before, then ? ” 

‘‘ Appear ! I ? ” cried John in astonishment. 
Had he after all his trouble only managed to secure 
the presence of a ghostly lunatic. 

‘‘ Verily thyself. Who else, think you ? ” 

I should have thought that any appearing that 
had been done was by 3^011.” 

“ By me ! ” exclaimed the ghost, flinging himself 
into the chair, twisting his legs over the arm, and 
bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. 

There ran tlirough all this curious creature’s con- 
versation a strain of oddness. It was not so much 
that he employed words and plirases to which John 
was unaccustomed, as that his whole tone had a 
vague, unseizable antique flavor, impossible to con- 
vey. It lay, John thought, rather in the intonation 
and manner of his speech, than in the actual expres- 
sions. 

On my faith,” he said at length, you are but a 
droll kind of ghost.” 

“ Ghost ! ” cried John, seized witli sudden fear. 

I’m not a ghost.” 

The man in yellow stopped short in liis laugli, and 


His Fatal Success. 


81 


leered at him under liis eyebrows, with a hateful look 
of amusement in his yellow eyes. 

Say you so ? ” he said mockingly, ‘‘ prithee then, 
what are you ? who are you ? ” 

“I am a man, and my name is John Stuart.” 

Were a man, you would sa}^ I opine.” 

‘‘Am a man,” rejoined John, beginning to lose his 
temper at the other’s obstinacy. 

“ My friend,” said he rising, “ I think: we' are be- 
coming somewhat confounded. Are you, in all honest 
soberness, persuaded that you have not revealed 
yourself to me ? ” 

“Why, of course I haven’t. You have appeared 
to me.” 

The ghost stared incredulously for a time, and then 
turned away with a whistle of perplexity. 

“ This is marvellous quaint,” he said, as he strode 
impatiently to the other end of the apartment and 
back. He halted in front of John and began : 

“ My good sir — ” 

“ But my good sir,” interrupted John, “if you are 
really under the delusion that you have not appeared 
to me, how the deuce do you account for your pres- 
ence in my room in that ridiculous fancy dress? ” 

“Your room I ” cried the other, “your room! 
well, by my head, that passeth all. Your room I ” he 
continued in a tone of withering scorn, “ what then 
make you of that ? ” and he pointed to the coat-of- 
arms, with the date and initials, carved above the 
fireplace, “what make you of that?” 

“ Pooh I ” said John, “ that’s been there for three 
hundred years and more.” 

6 


82 


His Fatal Success. 


There never was a more astounded ghost than the 
man in yellow at that moment. He simply gasped 
with amazement. 

“Hath it so, indeed?” he blurted out, “ three hun- 
dred years ! and what means it, sithens you know so 
much?” 

“ Of course, I don’t know that now,” said John, in 
disgust. 9 - 

“ Marry, I will be sworn you do not, natheless I do. 
R. T. signifies Richard Travers, for so am I called ; 
and 1534 was the year in which I builded this house — 
nineteen years agone.” 

“ Nineteen years ! three liundred and nineteen, you 
mean. Why, man, this is eighteen liundred and fifty- 
three. Now how do you reconcile your theory that 
I have appeared to you, with the fact that, on your 
own showing, you have been dead nearly three hun- 
dred years. Hang it all, man, don’t you remember 
dy i ng ? ” 

The ghost regarded him with a smile of amused 
pity. 

“ He hath lost his wits,” he said, half aloud. “ He 
is bereft of reason, a veritable crack-brain. The pity 
of it, that I should so have striven for three long 
weary months to catch but a mad ghost at the 
last!” 

By this time John Stuart’s head was in a whirl. 
The persistency of the ghost’s assertions, the calm 
announcement that he, instead of John, had spent 
three months in summoning a spirit “from the vasty 
deep,” were beginning to unsettle his confidence. 

“ Excuse me,” he said. “ Most of your statements 


His Fatal Success, 


83 


are so unreliable, that you must forgive my express- 
ing a doubt. Have you really been three months 
seeking me ? ” 

“ Faith ! ” replied Travers, as he claimed to be 
called, ‘‘ I have been three months seeking somebody 
— I would say, some spirit. I doubt me much 
whether you are quite the kind I wanted, but you 
must serve my turn, I suppose.” 

“ But I have been three months seeking for you,” 
cried John. 

“ How could you, being dead ? ” queried the man. 

But I’m not dead. I never was dead. How can 

I be dead when Fm alive ? I mean ” and he 

broke down from mere confusion of mind. 

“ Mark you this, my friend. You know not what 
you say. T’were better you confessed yourself a 
dissembling knave, and you cannot bear your part 
more bravely.” 

“ Oh ! ” said John with a groan, this is perfectly 
ridiculous.” 

“Well,” the man went on, after a pause, “out of 
your own mouth then I must convict you. Know 
you where you are ? ” 

“ Of course I do,” said John hotly. “ In Wick- 
worth. Don’t be an ass.” 

“ Softly, softly, my master,” replied Travers, 
“ Know you then any man in the town ? ” 

“ Lots of people, naturally. I am a clerk in the 
bank.” 

“ The bank ! What mean you ? I never heard of 
it, but let that pass. Know you, perchance, Master 
Francis Greville ? ” 


84 


His Fatal i^iicccss. 


Greville? No. I never heard of him.’’ 

‘‘Our most worthy mayor, Master William 
Dunne ? ” 

“ No.” 

The rector, Sir Richard Harley ? ” 

“ I know his tomb in the church.” 

“ Out upon you for a false cozener ! He is not 
dead. His tomb forsooth ! Look you, now, how soon 
you are set down. You profess a certain knowledge 
of this place, and yet art ignorant of our three most 
respected citizens. Go to, you are mistaken.” 

“ No, no, no,” cried John. “ It is you that are mis- 
taken. You and all those others have been dead for 
years. Only I suppose you’ve forgotten it.” 

“ Of a truth, you make me laugh. Here stand I, 
substantial flesh and blood, within mine own demesne, 
with numberless good gossips in the town, and you 
would outface me that I am an intruder, and this 
room yours.” 

“Substantial!” said John, catching at the idea, 
“ we’ll soon see that. If you’re a solid living man^ 
as you maintain, grasp my hand.” 

The man at once extended his hand, but though 
John’s fingers seemed to encircle it they closed on 
nothing. 

“ There I ” he cried triumphantly. “ You see I I 
can’t grasp your hand. You are only air — a phantom 
— a spirit — a shade.” 

“ Well,” said Travers, “you are the most stubborn 
ghost I ever heard tell of. At your proper request, 
I try to seize you, and when, as I foresaw, I fail to 
do so, you would still maintain that I am to blame. 


His Fatal Success, 


85 


But I will shortly mark your error once for all. See 
you this chair?” 

He raised it in his hand as he spoke, and carried it 
to the other end of the room. 

‘‘ Now,” he said, with a malicious grin, ‘‘ bring it 
back if you are able.” 

John advanced, and endeavoring to lift it, found 
his two hands clenched and empty. Again and again 
he tried, with growing despair at his heart. Gradually 
the ghastly conviction was gaining strength 

“The chair,” he said to himself — “like the man, is 
air.” 

But with a sudden rush, certainty swept away the 
feeble barriers he still strove to raise. The man was 
right he — he himself was incorporeal. 

With a wild cry of heartbreaking agony he turned 
and fled from him into the night. The doors were 
locked and barred, but he was unconscious of them 
as he passed through them out into the darkness. 

He was convinced. 

For a long, long time he paced up and down alone 
in the outer air, in an agony of terror and despair. 
What was this thing that he had done ? What was 
he? Who was he? Now — how could he get back 
to his old self and his old life? Why had he not 
paused before it was too late ? 

He saw it all now, now when it was past all remedy. 
In his mad attempt to attract that other’s mental 
atmosphere to his own he had overreached himself, 
and owing to the other’s stronger volition, he had 
permitted his own atmosphere to be gradually drawn 
into that of this evil-looking creature, Richard 


8G 


His Fatal Success. 


Travers. The strange sensation which he had so 
long experienced had arisen from Travers' attempts 
to put himself in harmony with John, and in his 
blind folly he had in every way possible assisted 
him. 

He had courted his fate, and instead of making 
Travers appear to him, he had only succeeded in 
making himself appear to Travers. 

He had been the weaker and had allowed himself 
to be drawn back into the atmosphere of that wretch ; 
from the nineteenth century he had passed into the 
sixteenth. 

Was it still too late ? Could he not extricate 
himself? Surely, surely he could. But how? With- 
out the assistance of Travers it appeared to be 
impossible. Would he render that assistance? It 
could only have been idle curiosity that had prompted 
him. Now that that was gratified, he would un- 
doubtedly release him. 

Filled with this new strong hope he returned to tlie 
room he had left. 

To put the fact with stricter accuracy, he found 
liimself once more in that room, for he was uncon- 
scious of any movement. His passage from one spot 
to another was instantaneous, like the flight of fancy. 
The earth and all upon it had for him only a visible 
and audible, not a sensible existence. He could not 
tell as he stood, whether his feet were on the ground 
or not. Doors of oak, and walls of stone were to him 
mere mist. It was a peculiar and unpleasant exper- 
ience. 

Travers had resumed liis seat in front of tlie lieartli, 


His Fatal Success, 


87 


and John where he stood was out of his sight, while 
his reappearance had necessarily been noiseless, but 
the other seemed to be at once aware of his presence. 

‘‘So you have returned,” he said, without moving. 
“ I thought you would.” 

‘‘ Yes,” said John sullenly, “I have come back.” 

“ Are you then satisfied ? ” 

“No, I am not. I am extremely dissatisfied.” 

“Of course, of course. I should say, are you con- 
vinced?” 

John was about to answer in the affirmative, when 
a sudden idea occurred to him, and he changed it to 
a negative. 

“Not !” cried Travers. “ ByT lady you are hard 
to please. What is it that gives you pause ? ” 

“ Well, you see.” said John, endeavoring to con- 
trol his agitation, “you assert that you made me 
appear to you. Now I have doubts on that subject, 
which however you can easily set at rest.” 

“Indeed. How so?” said Travers, rising and 
facing him. 

“ If, as you say, you made me appear,” replied 
John, hope trembling in his voice in spite of himself. 
“ Nothing can be simpler for you than to make me 
disappear. Do that, and I will own myself de- 
feated.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Travers, regarding him with a 
mixture of amusement and, admiration. “ Excellent 
i’faith ! Excellent ! ” 

A rush of jo3Tul expectation flowed over John. 
Should he succeed? Would the odious man in 
yellow fall into tlie trap? 


88 


His Fatal Success, 


‘‘ Well ? ” he said impatiently, after a long 
pause. 

“Excellent,” drawled Travers once more. “Ex- 
cellent — for a ghost. Look you here, my friend,” 
he continued, suddenly changing his manner to 
one of fierce abruptness, “ think you, you are deal- 
ing with a dolt, a fool, an idiot ? If so, you are most 
grievously mistaken. Make you disappear?” He 
sneered. “ Aha, I should think so indeed. Do you 
suppose that I have been at such pains for notliing? 
No, no, most worthy ghost, I had need of you, I have 
got you, and you may swear to it, I mean to keep 
you.” 

For how long, or whither John Stuart wandered 
in his first passionate despair he never knew. Time 
and space alike were annihilated for him. He re- 
membered making a vehement appeal to Travers to 
spare him, to release him ; and finding him immov- 
ably relentless he had fled once more from his 
hateful presence into the outer darkness to mourn 
in solitude. 

In his present condition space was nothing to him. 
Wherever thought could penetrate, or memory return, 
he could go without let or hindrance. He even re- 
visited Wick worth as he had known it. He met, and 
addressed himself to dear friends and familiar ac- 
quaintances, but they neither heard nor saw him. 
He wrung his hands, and cried to them in anguish, 
but they went on unheeding. He stood in their 
paths, and they passed through him and on, uncon- 
scious of his presence. He was no longer in their 
mental atmosphere. He went hither and thither to all 


His Fatal Success, 


89 


the spots he knew so well, fiiicling comfort in none, 
adding fuel rather to the flame that scorched his 
soul. 

He soared up into the unpeopled regions of the air, 
and passed from one hemisphere to another in a flash 
of thought. A feeling of exultation began to glow 
within him, he felt almost satisfied with his lot. 
Here he determined he would remain. If he might 
not go back to his own place, at all events that abom- 
inable creature should get no benefit from his mis- 
fortune. He would never return to the detested 
presence of Richard Travers. 

Even as he made the resolution he felt some in- 
visible tie dragging him back to earth. Vainly he 
struggled ; he could not wrestle with the impalpable. 
Swiftly and surely he was swept downwards and 
onwards, as helpless as the thistledown upon the 
breeze, until he found himself once more before the 
one being he wished most to avoid. 

‘‘ Come ! ” said he, with an angry scowl.” A truce 
to this trifling. It is meet you learn to acknowledge 
your master. I have need of you, and can waste no 
more time in idle dallying.” 

“ You are no master of mine,” cried John furi- 
ously. ‘‘ I don’t care a rap for you or your purpose. 
Don’t i^eckon on any assistance of mine. I refuse to 
obey you.” 

Travers burst into a shriek of mocking laughter, 
and John, with a cry of rage, sprang at his throat. 
He might as well have tried to grasp the summer 
wind. 

‘‘ A most high-spirited spectre, upon my word,” 


90 


Ilis Fatal Success. 


sneered Travers, ‘‘Be calm, I pray you, and listen 
to reason.” 

“ Reason ! ” answered John bitterly, but he saw 
that resistance was useless. 

“ I have a use for you,” continued the other. 

as I have said already. And the sooner you re- 
sign a contest, which is to no purpose, the better it 
will be for you and me. You are completely in my 
power, and cannot even stir from this spot, an it be 
against my wishes. If you doubt me, try.” 

John did try with all his might, but it was un- 
availing. He knew if he could but think some 
of other place he would at once find himself there, 
but he was unable to do so. His will was bound down 
and crushed out by the man before him. 

'‘I submit,” he said at length, mournfully enough. 
“ You are my master. By what diabolical means you 
obtained such an influence over me I cannot under- 
stand, but I acknowledge that you possess it.” 

“So!” cried Travers triumphantly. “Now we 
can commune at our leisure. My mastery over you, 
an I mistake not, is full as much your work as mine. 
Some months agone I began, with set purpose, the 
endeavor to hold communion with a spirit. It was 
weaiy work, I strove long and sorely, but I have suc- 
ceeded at last ; I have succeeded at last.” And he 
rubbed his hands, and chuckled. 

“ Why, that is iny c«ase,” said John. 

“ Perdy I I thought as much. I sought for you, 
and 3^011 for me. When at length we foi'egathered, 
we were like unto two men, hauling at the opposing 
ends of a rope. An 3^011 had been the stouter I 


His Fatal Success, 


91 


should have been fain to go to you. By my good 
fortune I was the stronger, and you could not choose 
but come to me. Now here lies the point — will you, 
of your good will, lend me your aid, or must I con- 
strain you ? 

“ What do you wish me to do ? It is useless to 
resist.” 

“ Marry, well said. You seem to be a proper wight 
after all. What boots it to contend? It can be of 
no avail. Strive as you may you cannot prevail 
against me. Were you to flee to the uttermost 
depths of the sea, or the furthest star in the firma- 
ment, I have but to will it, and on the instant you 
are here. Now far be it from me to make your 
bondage more irksome than is needful. As you 
now are you cannot hope to get much satisfaction 
out of existence. To all intent, you have none. 
You are to all save me as invisible and intangible as 
the air they breathe.” 

John buried his face in his hands and groaned. 

Nay, nay,” continued Travers. Let not your 
spirit be dismayed. You might well be in a more 
parlous state. If you show yourself willing, you shall 
find in me a kindly master. To show you at once 
that’ I intend no ill by you, know that it is my first 
purpose to provide you with a body.” 

“ With what? ” cried John in amazement. 

“ With a body,” was the cool rejoinder. 

Mark you this,” continued Travers, after he had 
given John time to consider his extraordinary pro- 
posal. ‘‘As you are at present, you can be of no as- 
sistance to me or any man. I want an actual pres- 


92 


His Fatal Success, 


ence, not a ghost. You, I trow, would be more at 
ease if you possessed a bodily form. It is in my 
power to supply you with one. Are you so minded ? ” 

John hesitated for some time. Was this some 
snare ? To what would he commit himself if he ac- 
cepted this strange offer ? He could not, he con- 
cluded, be in a worse situation than he was in then. 
On the whole, he thought he would submit; but he 
resolved first to discover as much of the other’s plans 
as possible. 

‘‘ I don’t understand,” he said. ‘‘ What sort of 
a body ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, have no fear. There is no fault to find on 
that score. Young, lusty, and one, moreover, that 
will fit you like a glove. Would you like to see it ? ” 

He talked as if it ever a question of a suit of 
clothes. 

“ No, no,” said John, hurriedly. Never mind 
about that. The thing is — what do you want me to 
jdo, if I consent ? ” 

“ I have but one purpose for you to fulfil, and 
one, methinks, which few young men would cavil at. 
All I ask of you is to wed a fortune.” 

‘‘ Marry a fortune ? But suppose she objects? ” 

“ She will not. In truth she has consented here- 
tofore.” 

‘‘ Consented ! Then does she know ? ” 

No, no. Permit me to elucidate. The body 
of which I crave your kind acceptance, is that of 
my nephew. Sir Walter Carlingford, who was be- 
trothed to the aforesaid fortune. Unhappil}^, Walter 
has lived rather a gay life, and so piteously shattered 


His Fatal Success, 


93 


his constitution that — in short he has no longer any 
use for his body, so why should not you profit by it?” 

‘‘ But is that quite fair to the young lady ? ” 

By my troth she need never know the difference. 
In sooth, if on so brief an acquaintance, I do not mis- 
judge you, she will gain much advantage by the 
exchange. For Walter — albeit my nephew — was 
ever mighty wild.” 

John was puzzled and confused. He tried to think 
the matter out seriously, but could not. A proposi- 
tion so unusual would be calculated to unsettle the 
steadiest mind. It was difficult to consider it calmly 
and rationally. To regard a new body with the cool 
impartial judgment which the choice of a new house 
would call for is a faculty given to few. It is ques- 
tionable, if it were possible for' us to select our own 
bodies for ourselves, instead of being thrust into 
one without ceremony, whether many of us would 
be gainers. 

What I fail to understand — ” said John, finally, 
“ is why you take so much interest in the matter.” 

“ Sheer kindliness of heart,” answered Travers, 
not without hesitation. ‘‘ I am concerned for the 
poor maiden, and should grieve to see her happiness 
miscarry when it can be avoided with so much ease.” 

John still hesitated. He was unconvinced. The 
man did not look like one to be influenced by so 
disinterested a motive, and there was a gleam in 
his yellow eyes which belied his words. 

“ Come, come,” said Travers, roughly, ‘‘we waste 
time in irresolution. I cannot see what fairer proffer 
a ghost could wisli. And remember — ” he went on 


94 


His Fatal Success. 


with a hideous^ expression of. malignity, “I do not 
ask your consent, save as a matter of form, and to 
save trouble. You shall dearly abide it, if you re- 
fuse.” 

For an instant longer John reflected. He fully be- 
lieved that the man had the power he claimed, 
and it would perhaps be as well to appear to yield 
gracefully to the inevitable. He was helpless as he 
Avas. He would certainly be more in condition to 
cope with the other when he Avas on more equal terms 
Avith him. It is foolish to quarrel Avith a man you 
cannot injure. And if, as John did not doubt, there 
Avas some concealed villainy in the proposed plan, he 
would be better able to combat and defeat it as the 
false Sir Walter than as the disembodied John 
Stuart. 

‘‘ I consent,” he said. “ What am I to do ? ” 
Good, good ! ” cried Travers, leaping into the air, 
his face convulsed Avith a horrible exultation. I 
thought you would see Avhat Avas best for you. You 
shall not repent it, I Avarrant you. Young, hand- 
some, rich, you shall be happy as the day is long.” 

‘‘ Yes, yes,” said John, disgusted at the extrava- 
gance of his demonstrations of joy. ‘‘ What am I to 
do?” 

Do ? ” answered Travers. ‘‘ Rest where you are, 
and set your gaze on mine.” 

John did so. Travers stood before him, his hands 
outstretched towards him, his lips tightened, and his 
broAvs contracted. As John gazed into his eyes they 
seemed to glow Avith internal fire. Gradually the 
darkness seemed to gather round him, and Avrap him 


Sis Fatal Success, 


95 


like a fog in which those two eyes burned alone, 
Slowly the darkness deepened, and the fiery orbs 
seemed to retreat further and further into the dis- 
tance. They shone at last for a moment like two 
remote stars, lessened, faded, and vanished. 


CHAPTER V. 

MIXED FEELINGS. 

When John returned to consciousness, the chill 
light of a winter’s morning illuminated the room. 
Some hours at least must have passed since he lost 
himself in the enfolding darkness. 

His first sensation was one of extreme languor; he 
was aware of a racking headache, and his limbs were 
as cold and as heavy as lead. He felt no inclination, 
even if he possessed the power, to move ; he was con- 
tent to lie and enjoy the sense of restfulness which 
overpowered even the feeling of sickness which op- 
pressed him. 

The curtain at the head of the bed was drawn for- 
ward, as if to exclude the draught, and the only part of 
the room visible to him was that which lay directly be- 
fore him. In his half-waking condition he forgot the 
events of the previous night, and was puzzled at the 
growing joy he experienced on realizing the fact that 
the room was his own. 

The grain of the panelling at the foot of his bed 


96 


His Fatal Success, 


had been strangely contorted during growth, and he 
had often amused liimself, in the delicious moments 
between waking and rising, by discovering figures 
and faces in its varying curves. It stood before his 
eyes now, and vaguely, unthinkingly, he let his fancy 
wander as usual. Generally he had been able to find 
in it what shapes he would, but now, in spite of all 
his efforts, one face alone was pictured, which he was 
unable to banish. It was a hideous, mocking, evil 
face, and he wondered in a dim uncertain way where 
he had seen it, and why it haunted him so 

By degrees, the occurrences of the past night re- 
vived in his memory, and he knew it. It was Richard 
Travers, the man in yellow. But with what feelings 
of exultation, of overwhelming joy he regarded it 
now. He was safe, safe in his own room, and his suf- 
ferings were past with the hideous nightmare that 
had given birth to them. The bodyless John Stuart, 
the man in yellow were no more than visions of the 
night. 

He was about to rise, when he remembered that it 
was the first of January, and holiday at the Bank, 
and he turned over to enjoy that priceless boon, an 
extra hour in bed. 

As he lay thinking over his dream, he was aston- 
ished at the vividness of the impression it had made 
on him. Richard Travers with his horrible yellow 
face, and strange yellow garments was as actual to 
him as if he had really known him. His own bitter 
des[)air at the discovery of his unsubstantiality was 
as real an experience as any of liis waking life. He 
could see his room now, the same, yet so curiously 


His Fatal Success, 


97 


a,ltered. He shuddered as he thought of the misery 
he had suffered. 

‘‘ Thank heaven ! ” he cried, ‘‘ it was notliing but 
a dream.” 

Presently, as he grew more wakeful, he became 
sensible of a curious confusion of identity. Visions 
of places he had never seen, and persons he had 
never known flitted, half-formed, through his mind ; 
visions which were almost memories but which van- 
ished when he tried to grasp them. One sweets 
pleading girl’s face rose again and again, though he 
knew he had never seen it, and could remember no 
picture like it. It was as if he had the power of re- 
calling some one else’s memories. 

His head ached so that thought and sensation were 
alike difficult and confused, but he was diml}^ con- 
scious of a discomfort not attributable to the sickness 
from which he suffered. His limbs seemed only par- 
tially obedient to his will. He seemed to be afflicted 
not with paralysis, but with a sort of muscular apha- 
sia. Often, when he intended to make one move- 
ment, he found himself unconsciously performing 
another quite different. His eyes seemed closer to- 
gether than they used to be. A horror seized him — 
was he going mad ? 

His mind seemed healthy enough. He went with- 
out difficulty over the events of the previous day. 
His breakfast, office hours, evening walk, and part- 
ing with his best friend, were all as clear as noon, 
until the moment when he sat himself down in the 
darkness to make his last attempt. 

Here he halted with a sudden shock of fearful 

7 


98 


His Fatal Success. 


wonder. Why was he in that room, not in the other ? 
How had he got to bed ? 

When he came to think, it was simple enough. 
He had overstrained his nerves, been found uncon- 
scious, and been carried to his bed, Avhere he had suf- 
fered, for how long lie knew not, from some brain 
disease, from which he was now recovering. 

It was a complete and satisfactory explanation of 
all his singular sensations, but it was no sooner 
formed than shattered. Shattered by a fact so slight 
and trivial that it would have been ludicrous had it 
not been so all-important. 

The curtain at the head of the bed was unknown 
to him. 

In an instant he seized it and dragged it aside. 
With a cry of horror he fell back upon his pillow. 
The room was his own, but the furniture was strange 
and new. Close to his hand stood an oaken chair on 
which was a tumbled heap of oddly-fashioned clothes 
which were not his. Against the wall opposite to 
him was a tall bureau which he had never seen be- 
fore, and by it hung a rich Venetian mirror, far dif- 
ferent from his modest looking-glass. It was no 
dream. 

For a long time he was completely stupefied by 
the shock he had sustained. He could only moan to 
himself over and over again : 

‘Ht was no dream. It was no dream.” 

A faint ray of hope presently dawned within him. 
This was perhaps merely a slight return of his illness, 
an illusion which time and calmness would dispel. 
Mastering his emotion with an effort, he lay with his 


His Fatal Success, 


99 


eyes closed until lie could endure it no longer, but 
when he opened them, the room was still the same. 

It was no hallucination. 

Hastily reviewing the details of the preceding 
night, his inability to grasp the chair recurred to him. 
How then could he feel the curtain he still clutched ? 

Fear lent him strength, he sprang from the bed 
and rushing to the mirror recoiled in affright. 

The face reflected there was not his own. Instead 
of the round fresh face, ruddy complexion, and 
brown curly hair that' had been his, lie saw a thin 
oval face, with an aquiline nose, and black straight 
liair. The eyes were too close together, and the 
whole countenance, though undeniably handsome, 
wore a sensual dissipated look which shocked John’s 
somewhat rigid mind. And this was the mask he 
was doomed to wear. Under this doubtful guise he 
was fated to appear in future before his fellow men. 
With a groan, part rage, part terror, he fell upon the 
bed. 

His agony was terrible. He was mad with grief 
and despair. In the uncontrollable frenzy which pos- 
sessed him he tore at the bed clothes with his teeth 
and liands, cursing himself and the day he had been 
born, the insane folly that had brought him to such 
a strait, and tlie foul spirit whose ^ co-operation had 
drawn him to this fate. 

When by his efforts, he had exhausted the frail 
body, weakened by illness, which was now his, his 
mind still raged in bitter hopeless revolt against his 
destiny. In vain he sought some channel of escape, 
he was beyond help. In his bodyless condition he 


100 


HU Fatal Success, 


had been unable to resist ; now that he was irretriev- 
ably imprisoned in this hateful form, he was still 
more securely trapped. He had now, it was true, 
the powers of offense or defense, but it was doubt- 
ful whether it would benefit him in any way to kill 
Travers, or himself, or both. 

What he resented most, when his first rage had ex- 
pended itself, was the feebleness of the form he oc- 
cupied. That he, who had taken every possible 
measure to preserve his health and strength, and who 
had consequently never known a day’s real sickness 
in his life, should be compelled to endure at second 
hand the suffering and weakness arising from the 
follies and crimes of another was unbearable. And 
yet he had no means of redress. 

In his blind infatuation he had sown; with bitter 
tears of remorse and repentance he must reap the 
harvest. 

He was roused at length from his stupor by the 
sound of a closing door, and looking up, his loathing 
eyes lighted on the yellow visage of Kichard Tra- 
vers. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, ‘‘ I rejoice to perceive that you 
are better.” 

“Have I been ill then? ” asked John. 

“ In truth you have ; miserably, woefully afflicted. 
Time was,” he continued, in the silkiest of tones, 
“ time was, I feared that I should lose you, so shortly 
after I had found you. ’Twould have been a griev- 
ous misfortune, would it not ? ” 

“How long have I been ill?” said John, taking 
no notice of his mocking question. 


7/^9 Fatal Sttceess, 


101 


“ Let me see. This is the seventeenth clay of Feb- 
ruary. That makes it, as near as may be, four 
months.” 

Four months? ” cried John, what rubbish ! It’s 
barely seven weeks.” 

“ For you, yes, yes,” replied Travers placidly, 
‘‘ seven weeks for you, ’tis true, but you bear not in 
mind poor Walter’s part. But you are better now. 
That is well, that is well.” 

‘‘I wish I had died,” groaned John, wliy didn’t 
you let me die.” 

“Hush, hush,” said Travers, quite unmoved, 
“ you are unthankful. But now if you feel strong 
enough, let us hold converse, my dear Walter.” 

“My name’s not Walter,” said John fiercely. “ I 
am John Stuart, as you know.” 

Travers shook his liead pityingly and sighed. 

“ Poor fellow ! ” he murmured. “ Poor fellow ! 
Still distraught. Of a truth, my dear Walter, you 
must endeavor to combat this singular delusion. 
Bethink you of the evil effect upon the good neigh- 
bors. What should they think when, having known 
you for many a day as Sir Walter Carlingford, you 
affirm that you are plain John Stuart. You must 
dismiss tliis vain conceit, you must indeed.” 

“ I will not,” cried John. “I am John Stuart, 
and you know it, you gloating demon.” 

Travers, still smiling amiably, took a seat by the 
bedside. 

“Well,” he said. “Sith we are alone, T will con- 
fess, for the nonce, that you are. But what then ? 
What good can that do you ? I can bring forward 


102 


His Fatal Success, 


an hundred trusty witnesses to depone that you are 
no other than Sir Walter. You may plainly foresee 
the outcome of your sole, unsupported assertion to 
the contrary. They would conclude that you were 
mad.” 

‘‘ But I won’t, for a moment, consent to such an 
imposition. I insist upon being released.” 

“ Good lack, good lack,” said Travers, affecting 
pained surprise. ‘‘ I thought that we had disposed 
of all that seven weeks agone. I told you then I 
would not disenthral you, if I could. Now I cannot, 
an I would. ’Twas by your own consent you took 
that form, it is out of my power now to relieve you 
of it.” 

John groaned aloud. The truth of Travers, re- 
marks was only too palpable. Whether he was really 
as incapable of freeing him from his bondage, as he 
pretended, or not, he manifestly had no intention of 
doing so, and it was perfectly certain that any denial 
on his part of his identity, would only lead to tlie re- 
sult Travers mentioned. To resist further was useless. 

‘‘ What deviltry — ” he said at length — “ do you re- 
quire of me ? ” 

‘‘We can discuss that anon, though, as I told you 
aforetime, there is no deviltry, it is innocence itself. 
Your task is to get well as speedily as you may. We 
will assign a month to that purpose. I doubt not 
that with your healthy disposition that will be time 
enough. During that month I intend to give myself 
up to acquainting you, as far as possible, with the 
facts of your past life, the details of which, owing to 
your recent severe indisposition, have, I fear me 


His Fatal Success. 


103 


much, entirely escaped you. A curious and interest- 
ing case of loss of meinoiy. By great luck I am 
your only near kinsman.” 

John writhed internally in impotent opposition to 
this complete identification of himself with Sir Wal- 
ter, but it was vain to expostulate. Travers, having 
once for all clearly explained the situation, received 
all further remonstrance with a bland smile or a pity- 
ing shrug of the shoulders. He was obviously de- 
termined to treat any such assertion on John’s part 
as a sign of insanity in his nepliew; and John, with 
fury at his heart, had no choice but to acquiesce. 
He must pass for Sir Walter, mad or sane, and the 
latter was at all events to be preferred. 

While he had been thus reconciling himself, how- 
ever unwillingly, to Ids fate, Travers had been mix- 
ing something in a glass which he now brought to 
the bedside. 

Drink that,” he said, ’twill serve to cool and 
refresh you. Oh, fear nothing,” he added with a 
laugh, noticing John’s look of doubt, “ it is no poi- 
soned draught. You are too needful to me for that.” 

John drank it without a word, and it seemed to 
put new life into his parched veins. 

^‘That is well,” said Travers exultingly, ‘‘already 
you look better. Right soon you will be restored 
and on your feet again. And now, if you so will, 
we can commence our little lesson forthwith.” 

“No, no!” cried John despairingly, “not now, 
leave me — for God’s sake — leavemie to myself awhile. 
If you have no mercy, show me, at least, a little pity, 
and go ! ” 


104 


His Fatal Success^ 


CHAPTER VI. 

FIRST FRUITS. 

At the end of three weeks John felt sufficiently 
recovered to crawl with help from one room to the 
other. During this time Travers was his only and 
constant attendant. In fact, the burning desire that 
possessed John to escape occasionally from this un- 
pleasant companionship had no slight effect in hasten- 
ing his convalescence, for, though he could not but ad- 
mit that his devotion was unexceptionable, yet he 
could never bring himself to do more than endure 
his presence, and could never look upon him without 
a return of the loathing he had experienced at the first 
sight of his evil, yellow face. 

John’s condition was, at this time, indeed truly pit- 
iable, for in addition to the physical sufferings ac- 
cruing from his fevered state, he was surrounded at 
all hours by petty annoyances which served to keep 
his disordered nerves in perpetual irritation. As long 
as he was confined to his bed, these were mainly con- 
fined to the coarseness of the bed coverings ; the 
nauseous ingredients of the medicines which Travers 
in his character of physician, forced upon him ; and 
the want of delicacy in the small quantity of nourish- 
ment which he painfully compelled himself to swal- 
low. But when he succeeded in rising, life became 
a hideous series of discomforts. The absence of num- 


His Fatal Success. 


105 


berless small accommodations, whicli he had been ac- 
customed to regard as necessaries, struck him at 
every ‘turn. From the moment when he engaged for 
the first time in a helpless struggle Avith the garments 
of which the fashion, method of putting on, and even 
of fastening were alike unknown to him, until he 
stretched his aching limbs uneasily upon the hard 
uncushioned seat, with no absorbing romance procur- 
able to distract his gloomy thoughts, he passed through 
a period of intense, though paltry, vexations. 

He managed to obtain some relief from the miseries 
of his position in the exercise of a power to torment 
Travers which he discovered himself to possess. He 
felt no scruples on the score of ingratitude, as he 
knew perfectly well that Travers’ attentions were de- 
voted more to his own interests than to his patient’s. 

His system was extremely simple. He resolutely 
refused to listen to any information regarding Sir 
Walter’s past life. In vain Travers pleaded and ar- 
gued, he was deaf to all expostulation, and Avhen, in 
despite of John, he insisted upon relating various de- 
tails of the past, he would stop his ears, or carefully 
refrain from paying any attention. It was joy un- 
speakable to him to watch Travers struggling against 
the growing irritation which he always endeavored 
to conceal under a manner of supreme blandness. 

Before John had been up and about a week, Imw- 
ever, an event occurred which convinced him that if 
his painful position was to be endurable at all he 
must eventually submit to Travers’ tutoring. 

On the ninth of March, having, with his' usual 
difficulty, got into the unaccustomed garments which 


106 


His Fatal Success, 


he was compelled by circumstances to wear, he crept 
to the front room, and sank exhausted by the effort 
into an elbow chair. 

Travers, liaving seen him safely bestowed, liad left 
him to attend to some business in the town, but John 
had not been long alone, almost enjoying the pleasing 
weakness of convalescence, when the door burst open 
and a little fat old man, with a red face, white hair, 
and beard trimmed to a peak, was, as it were, blown 
into the room on the whirlwind of his own excite- 
ment. 

“ Aha, my dear Sir Walter ! ” cried the new-comer, 
seizing his hand and shaking it enthusiastically, 
‘‘once more among us. That is well. I am glad, 
exceeding glad.” 

“ Thanks awfully,” said John wearily, adding to 
himself, “I wonder who the deuce this is.” 

The old gentleman bubbled over for some time 
with delight and congratulation, until a sudden 
thought struck him. 

“ By the way,” he said, “ hath Bob been to see you 
yet?” 

“Yes,” replied John, without tliinking, “oh, yes, 
he’s been.” 

“ Was he rejoiced to behold you once more?” 

“Rejoiced!” said John, fairly committed, “he was 
delighted.” 

“Marry, I would be sworn he was.” 

“Yes,” John continued, not content to let well 
alone, “ he said the nicest things about it.” 

The old man’s face fell, and he regarded John 
wonderingly. 


His Fatal Success. 


107 


“I crave your pardon,” he said hesitatingly. ^‘Did 
I rightly understand you to say that, Bob — — ? ” 

“ Yes, yes,” replied John, seeing that he had 
blundered in some way, but unable to help himself, 
“lie said the most charming and sympathetic things.” 

The wondering eyes grew rounder than ever. 

“ But, fair sir,” he stammered, he could not, 
being as he is a dog.” 

John felt that he had fairly put his foot into the 
net, but he was bound to try to wriggle out some- 
how. 

“ Of course,” he said, awkwardly, I know that. I 
mean he seemed to say them. Wagged his tail, and 

barked, and all that kind of thing, don’t you 

know ? as if he would have said them if lie could. I 
was only speaking metaphorically.” 

The old gentleman looked as if he did not know 
what metaphorically ” meant, which was probably 
the case, but he discreetly changed the subject by 
saying : 

Mary will be heartily delighted at your recovery.” 

John was too careful now, after his last failure, to 
blunder any further, until he was sure what Mary 
was, so he merely nodded assent. The stranger 
seemed surprised at John’s indifference, but he rat- 
tled on : 

She bade me be sure to convey to you her fond 
love, an I had speech with you.” 

‘‘ Thank you,” said John. Mary was evidently a 
woman. 

‘‘She is fairly dying to see you, poor maid. You 
must visit her as soon as you can go abroad.” 


108 


His Fatal Success* 


‘‘ Thanks. Oh, yes, of course I shall.” Mary 
seemed of an impulsive disposition, and lived ap- 
parently in some foreign country. 

Shall I bear her your love in return ? ” asked his 
companion, not without indignation, as if he had 
expected the proposition to come from John. 

Oh, 3"es ! ” said he indifferently, “ I suppose that 
will be the right thing.” 

The little man seemed very mucli upset about 
something, and changed the subject once more. 

For some time, by the exercise of a prodigious 
amount of ingenuity, John avoided entangling him- 
self further, wishing in his heart tliat Tz^avers, whom 
he had previously done his best to elude, would come 
to his relief. Presently he was bi'ought up shoi't by 
the explosion of another conversational bombshell. 

“Well bethought on,” said his visitoi\ “No 
further tidings have been obtained anent the fate of 
your friend Roger Helmsley.” 

“ Oh, really,” said John, feeling that the ice was 
getting pretty thin again. 

“ Not a word. ’Tis wondrous strange.” 

“ Very,” answered John, wondering wlio Roger 
Helmsley was, and hoping that the old man would 
confine himself to genei^alities. 

“ I am mighty puzzled regarding it.” 

“It is rum,” said John, adding unguardedly, “ I 
often wonder where he’s gone.” 

“That ought to be safe,” he fondly tliought. 

“ Gone ! ” cried liis unwelcome guest. “ By’r lady, 
he is dead.” 

This was a facer, and John made no remark. 


His Fatal Success, 


109 


“ Knew you not that?” said his companion after a 
pause. 

‘‘ Oh, yes, of course. I remember now.” 

“Of course you do. You must. Now I think on 
it, you first found him.” 

“ Of course I did,” said John, considering it use- 
less to deny it, but wishing that the earth would open, 
and swallow this persistent questioner. 

“ I have never as yet learned the true facts of that 
matter,” resumed his tormentor. “ I wish you would 
relate them to me now.” 

John groaned in spirit. What on earth was he to 
say ? If he attempted to invent a story, he was cer- 
tain to bungle at the first start, and yet the other’s 
air of hushed expectancy precluded the possibility of 
dropping the subject. 

“Well, you see,” he stammered, he was — er — was 
lost. And — er — I — er — I found him, that’s all.” 

“Yes, yes. I know. But where? That is what 
I would be certain of — where ? ” 

“ Well,” said John in despair, seeing there was no 
help for him, “You know the Bank. 

“ The Bank ! ” 

“Yes. The Wickworth and County Bank. Close 
to the Police Station. You know?” 

“ What mean you ? ” 

A flash of inspiration occurred to John — there was 
no Bank there now. 

“ I mean the embankment — the railway embank- 
ment — close to the railway station.” 

The old man rubbed his forehead with such an air 
of hopeless perplexity that John saw he was wrong 


110 


His Fatal Success. 


again. He made a last desperate attempt to extricate 
himself.” 

“I was passing the gas works ” 

The gas works ? ” gasped his puzzled interlocutor. 
‘‘What be those? I was given to understand that it 
was on Cricnell Common.” 

“ Of course it was,” cried Jolin with an assumed 
air of reckless gayety. “ I was just coming to that. 
I was crossing Cricnell Common when I met — met — ” 
He had forgotten the man’s name. “Met — him.” 
He concluded lamely. 

“ Met him? when he was dead?” 

“ Dead, of course he was. Dead as a doornail. 
When I say met him, I mean came across him.” 

“ Found him,” suggested the other. 

“ Well, I said so,” answered John irritably. 
“Found him.” 

“ Was he much hurt ? ” asked the little man. 

“ Hurt ? Why he was dead, man.” 

“ Yes, I know. I should say, was he grievously 
wounded ? ” 

“Grievously? Weill should rather think so. He 
was killed.” 

He felt a certain amount of pleasure, in spite of 
his troubles, in turning the tables to some extent on 
his persecutor. 

“Yes, yes. Did he seem sorely injured?” 

“ Rather ; his head was blown completely off.” 

This reckless statement finished it. The old man 
rose with a scared expression, under the uii mistake- 
able conviction that Sir Walter Caiiingford was a 
raving maniac. 


Hia Fatal Success. 


Ill 


‘‘ It is the lirst time that ever I lieanl of a man’s 
liead being blown off by a stab in the back,” he said 
shortly. 

“Hat, I said,” cried John despairingly, “his hat 
was blown completely off.” 

At this unfortunate juncture Travers entered the 
room. 

His face lengthened considerably as he saw the 
old gentleman fuming and wiping his brow, and as 
John sank back in his chair with a sigh of relief, he 
hastened to salute the surprised and indignant visitor. 

“How fare yon. Master Merrill?” he cried with 
well feigned pleasure. “ So you have come to speak 
with our poor Walter. That is most kind of you, 
most kind and thoughtful, on my life.” 

He led the other away to the window, where they 
stood for some time in eager whispered conference. 
John overheard occasional snatches of their conver- 
sation : 

“ Bank — Helmsley — head blown off — break off 
the match — utterly distraught.” 

But he was too worn out by his late efforts, and 
too glad to be released, to pay much attention. 

“ No, no,” broke out Travers angrily, at length, “ I 
will not hear of it.” 

More muttered expostulation and argument follow- 
ed which was concluded by the old gentleman say- 
ing doubtfully : 

“ Well, well, it may be so. I will take your word 
for it.” 

“ It is so, I protest,” answered Travers, as they re- 
turned to John. 


112 


His Fatal Success, 


“It is but a thing of the moment, and will pass 
away. Mark you, our poor dear Walter has been very 
ill indeed, and is not yet thoroughly recovered. 
One of his most distressing symptoms at present is 
his complete and utter loss of recollection. In sooth, 
it was quite a long time ere he could recall his own 
name, but he will soon be well. Returning strength, 
fair sir, returning strength will do it, I am something 
of a leech, and I know.” 

“Well, I must take my leave,” said Merrill, as he 
seemed to be named, still looking unconvinced, and 
carefully keeping the table between himself and 
John, “ Fare you well. Sir Walter, shall I bear your 
love to Mary ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, certainly,” said he. 

“ Will you not indite her a brief billet ? ” he sug- 
gested, “she would, I know, be vastly pleased if you 
would.” 

“No, no,” said Travers, interfering, “he is far too 
weak at present. Another time, worthy sir, another 
time.” 

“ Who in the name of goodness is that old fool ? ” 
cried John furiously, as soon as the outer door had 
closed behind the departing visitor. 

“ That,” said Travers grimly, “ that is Master 
James Merrill.” 

“ And who the deuce is Mary ? ” 

“ Mary is his daughter. The damsel you are be- 
trothed to.” 


Ris Fatal Success. 


1J3 


CHAPTER VII. 

‘‘LOVP: IX A MIST.” 

Ox the afternoon of Marcli the seventeenth, the 
weather being remarkably mild for the season, John 
ventured to taste the fresh air for the first time since 
the fatal conclusion of his experiments. 

Taught by the results of Ins disagreeable interview 
with James Merrill, he had, much to Travers’ de- 
light, submitted himself unwillingly to his instruc- 
tions in that past which was now his by right of in- 
heritance, and had quickly learned all that his tutor 
was able or chose to tell him. 

As he paced the walks of the garden which lay be- 
liind the house, for he did not yet dare to go into the 
town, he pondered in his mind the lesson he had 
learned. 

Sir Walter Carlingford had at an early age been 
left an orphan with a considerable fortune, under the 
guardianship of his uncle, Richard Travers. When 
he attained his majority he betook himself to London. 
What happened to him while there his uncle either did 
not know or did not care to reveal. He confined himself 
to stating that after some years Sir Walter had re- 
turned to Wick worth, broken in health and, which 
was to Travers of greater importance, in fortune. 
Attracted by the wealth of Mary Merrill, a neighbor- 
8 


114 


His Fatal Success, 


ing heiress, he had laid close siege to her, and after 
some delay had obtained the promise of her hand — • 
and its contents. Unfortunately, his previous dissi- 
pation had so undermined his constitution that 
shortly after that desirable consummation he had 
fallen into a decline, to which he had eventually suc- 
cumbed, as John and Travers alone knew. 

Having wrapped himself in a cloak, which he 
thought a most unmanageable garment and a very 
inefficient substitute for a great coat, John wandered 
slowly on, thinking sometimes of his acquired past, 
sometimes with bitter anguish of his real one. He 
was getting by degrees accustomed to the afflictions 
of his new surroundings ; but no amount of usage 
would ever, he felt sure, reconcile him to them. He 
revolted still as furiously and as futilely as ever 
against his false position. 

His steps led him in time to the far end of the 
garden, from which spot the house was concealed by 
a thick grove of trees and shrubs, already partially 
clothed with. the fresh verdure of spring. 

He was about to retrace his steps, when he was in 
some degree aroused from his reverie by a soft voice 
somewhere close at hand. 

‘‘ Hist! ” it said, in suppressed tones, ‘‘ Walter ! ” 

John paused for a moment, and tlien resumed his 
walk. It was undoubtedly no concern of his. But 
as he moved away, the voice, though still carefully 
lowered, followed his retreating form with a touch of 
appeal in its tones. 

“Walter, Walter, do not leave me thus,” it wailed. 

He suddenly remembered himself. He was Walter 


His Fatal Success, 


115 


now, and the entreaty was addressed to him. Turn- 
ing, he looked in the direction whence the sound 
proceeded, and saw peering over a gap in the hedge 
which bounded the garden the face of a girl. 

She was quite young, apparently not more than 
seventeen, but remarkably beautiful. Her eyes were 
large and blue, and were made only more charming 
by their anxious expression and by the tears with 
which they were fast filling. Her hair of a rich golden- 
brown color was cunningly tucked up under a hood. 
Her mouth was like a rosebud, almost babyish in its 
childlike simplicity ; her lips, half parted in her grief 
at the supposed Walter’s neglect, revealing the 
whitest of teeth. Her nose was delicately retrousse, 
and her cheeks round and rosy. 

“Now, who on earth is this?” was John’s reflec- 
tion, as he approached the delicious vision. 

“ Oh, Walter ! ” she cried, with a rising sob, as he 
drew near, “ I feared that you were about to leave 
me. Will you not speak to me ? ” 

“ Speak to her ! Of course I will,” thought John. 
“Who could resist such a temptation?” But it 
would certainly have made matters easier if he had 
only known who she was. There was no one at all 
ii) Sir Walter’s past answering to this innocent crea- 
ture, unless she were Mary, which did not somehow 
seem likely to him. The face was vaguely familiar 
to him, though how or why he could not for the life 
of him discover. 

“ Wherefore do you stay so far from me ? ” she 
said,' plaintively, as he stood irresolute. “You were 
not wont to do so. 


116 


His Fatal Success, 


^‘What,” John wondered, ‘‘was Sir Walter’s cus- 
tomary proceeding on these occasions ? ” 

“ See !” she cried, kindly but unconsciously reliev- 
ing him of the difficulty, “ I have kept the gap open all 
the while you have been ill.” 

Following her lead he found a very practicable 
opening into the lane in which she stood, through 
which he scrambled without difficulty. 

“Oh, Walter!” she said, clasping her little hands 
and looking up into his face with an expression of 
pure delight. “ Dear Walter, I am so glad that you 
are better. You are better, are you not? ” 

“ Yes. Oh, yes ; thanks, I am much better,” John 
answered. 

“ I have missed you so sadly, dearest. I have come 
here whenever I could, always hoping to see you, al- 
ways returning disappointed ; but you have come to 
me at last^ — at last.” 

“ She slipped her arm through his, as if to prevent 
his leaving her again, and led him gently down the 
lane which curved away before them. 

John was absorbed in wondering who she could be, 
while she prattled merrily, disclosing in every speech 
her pure innocent love for this man who knew her 
not. Willingly would John have reciprocated, but 
in his ignorance as to her identity, he did not dare 
to venture beyond the merest commonplace. 

“ Walter, dear,” she said, presently, pressing the 
arm she held, “ I am cold.” 

“ Yes ? ” he said, vaguely. “ It is cold, very cold. 
Perhaps you had better go home.” 

She snatched her arm from his, and stamped her 


His Fatal Success. 


117 


little foot on the ground, the tears welling up into 
her angry eyes. 

“ Is that all you have to say to me ? ” she cried. 

“Well,” said John, wondering in what he had 
offended, “ it seems to me about the best remedy.” 

“ I see what it is,” she went on, fiercely and rapid- 
ly, “you are wearied of me. You want to be rid of 
me. I have become a burden to you. You have 
ceased to love me. Oh, Walter, Walter,” she cried, 
bursting into tears, “ do not desert me, or I shall die.” 

“ No, no,” exclaimed John, fervently clasping her 
in his arms. “ My darling, I do love you.” 

It was, perhaps, hardly a justifiable proceeding, but 
John was rapidly losing his heart to this lovely crea- 
ture, and it was only fair, he reflected, that he should 
enjoy the sweets as well as the bitters of his unwill- 
ing impersonation. 

“ Then wherefore do you not offer to share your 
cloak with me as you were wont to do ? ” 

John hesitated for a moment. It seemed hardly 
honest to take, so much advantage of her innocent 
delusion ; moreover he had not yet got used to his 
new apparel, and still felt awkward about what he 
considered the insufficient covering of his legs. How- 
ever it was impossible to resist when he gazed into 
her eyes, and saw her little lip beginning to quiver, 
so he recklessly flung open his cloak, and folded it 
round her as she slipped to his side. 

As they strolled on wrapped in the same cloak, John 
could not deii}^ that it was extremely pleasant. The 
only drawback lay in the fact that the cloak kept 
sliding either off his shoulder, or off hers. After he 


118 


His Fatal Success, 


had replaced it for the twentieth time, she said tim- 
idly: 

“ Do you not think ’twould be wiser to put your 
arm round me, and so keep it up ? ” 

There was no help for it, so lie did so, and it cer- 
tainly answered the purpose admirably. As slie crept 
close to his side, to admit of this new arrangement, 
her arm glided gently round him, and they walked 
on in the most loving embrace. 

John’s scruples had vanished long since. Thougli 
he was, he felt, in masquerade, yet he was rapidly 
falling in love on his own account with this sweet 
artless girl. 

As he looked down upon the loving face turned 
up to his he remembered that it was the one which 
he had seen in his first waking visions, the morning 
that he recovered consciousness. Presently he saw 
her eyes gradually fill with tears. 

‘‘Walter,” she said pitifully, “ what ails you ? ” 

“ Ails me?” he said wondering, “nothing. Wliat 
makes you think that ? ” 

“You do love me still?” she said, answering, wo- 
manlike, his question with another. 

“Love you, my darling?” cried John, “now and 
always.” 

“ Then why don’t you kiss me ? ” 

It was not in human nature to resist ; John did 
not attempt to do so. He stooped and kissed lier 
again and again, as she clung to him, laughing 
through her tears. 

“ I was so lonely without you,” she said after a 
time, “ I thought you would never come back. Oh 


Ills Fatal Success, 


119 


if you had died ! But you are well now, are you not, 
quite, quite well ?” 

“Yes,” said Jolin earnestly, “I am quite Avell 
now.” 

“ You are changed though. Yon are much colder 
to me than you used to be.” 

“ No, no, I am not,” he answered, taking the 
easiest method of convincing her to the contrary. 
His joy at his success, however, was doomed to sharp 
and sudden extinction. Too much happiness is not 
good for man, and here his evil fate stepped in. 

“ Wherefore do you no longer call me by my old 
pet name? ” she asked innocently. 

Fortunately she cast down her eyes as she spoke, 
or the expression of horror which crossed John’s face 
must have alarmed her, and perhaps revealed part of 
the truth to her. John was completely overwhelmed 
by her remark. What was the old pet name ? who 
was she ? was she Mary Merrill ? Even if she was, 
the knowledge of that fact would be of no assistance 
in this case. His ready wit suggested a course to him, 
just as the pause was becoming embarrassing. 

“ Oh,” he said airily, “I have got a much better 
name than that. In future I mean to call you Blos- 
som.” 

The little arm that encircled him gave him a per- 
ceptible squeeze. 

“Yes, yes,” she cried, with sparkling eyes, “ that 
is much nicer. I think that Blossom is far prettier 
than Bud, don’t you?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said he, not without some twinges of re- 
morse, at deceiving lier, “ certainly, much prettier.” 


120 


His Fatal Success. 


‘‘Bud,” he thought, “tliat was the name, was it? — 
Why Bud ? ” he turned it over in his mind, but could 
not find any connection between Bud and Mary. 
And if she was not Mary, he did not know who she 
could be. 

“ Where is your uncle ? ” she asked suddenly. 

“ Out,” he answered. 

“ There is no fear of his returning, is there ? ” 

“None at all. He’s in the country somewhere, 
miles away.” 

“ That is well,” said she, with a sigh of relief. 

“ Why dear?” 

“Why?” she cried, looking up at him in surprise, 
“ it would be fatal, you know, should lie surprise us 
in converse. You yourself told me so.” 

“ Yes,” said he, “ of course it would.” 

Sir Walter’s conduct began to appear to liim in 
blackest hues. What a villain he must liave been, if 
he had meditated harm to one so innocent. 

“ Moreover,” she continued, “ what would my 
mother say ? ” 

“ Ah ! ” said John, solemnly shaking his head, as 
if the idea had occurred to him for the first time, as 
indeed it had, ‘* Ah ! what indeed ? ” 

Tlie afternoon had passed, and twilight was already 
deepening, when they returned to the part of the 
lane in which they had first met. 

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I must begone.” 

“No, no,” he cried clasping her in his arms, and 
pressing his lips to hers, “ No, no. Not yet.” 

“You will always love me, Walter,” she murmured 


His Fatal Success, 


121 


faintly, as she reclined unresisting on his breast, 
‘‘ you will never leave me ? ” 

“ Never, dearest, never, I swear.” 

She released herself gently from his embrace, and 
turned to go, in spite of his efforts to detain her. 

‘‘ Will you meet me to-morrow,” she said, ‘‘ at the 
old place ? ” 

‘‘ Here,” he inquired. 

“ No, no. This is too perilous. At the dear old 
place.” 

Was the cup of happiness at this last moment to 
be dashed forever from his lips? Where, where 
was the dear old place ? 

‘‘ I’m afraid, I can’t — to-morrow,” lie said, feeling 
blindly for some clue, some chance revelation. 

‘‘ The next day, then ? ” she said in a slightly 
offended tone. 

John’s position was pitiable. He was already com- 
pletely enamored of this charming maiden, and would 
have gone half round the world to meet her, but how 
could he when he was ignorant as to the whereabouts 
of the old place? He did not dare to acknowledge 
that he did not know. 

‘‘Well,” he said awkwardly, as she waited for an 
answer, “I’m afraid the next da^^ — ” he paused, not- 
ing in horror the trembling of her lips, and the grow- 
ing anger in lier pale face. 

“I see,” she said in a low, shaking voice, “you 
have deceived me, you are tired of me. I’ll never 
speak to you again,” and bursting into tears, as 
she finished speaking, she turned and fled from 
him. 


122 


His Fatal Success, 


No, no,” cried John, in an agony of despair, 
‘‘ Blossom ! Come back. I will explain ” 

But she paid no heed; the only answer was the 
quick beat of her footsteps, already dying in the dis- 
tance. He tried to follow, but was still too weak 
from his recent illness, to have any chance of over- 
taking her, so he gave up the attempt in despair. 
She was gone. And with grief gnawing at liis heart, 
he crept slowly back to the house. 


CHAPTER VIH. 

THE WOUM TUUNS. 

John’s dreams that night were filled with visions 
of the lovely girl he had met in the afternoon, and 
next morning at breakfast his thoughts were still so 
fixed upon her that he remained deaf to Travers’ con- 
versation, or answered his questions at random. 

This meal may be taken as one specimen of the 
many minor vexations, too numerous to mention in 
detail, which kept John in a perpetual ferment of 
irritation and resentment. He liad always been ex- 
ceedingly particular about his food, and had liked his 
eggs carefully boiled, his bacon crisply fried, his toast 
done to a turn, and his tea hot and strong. 

It is hard to imagine, without undergoiiig his prac- 
tical experience, what life was like before tea was 
introduced into England. Instead of tlie liot, deli- 


His Fatal Success, 


128 


cately scented mixture to which he was accustomed 
he was compelled to put up with draughts of small 
beer, which he detested, and which rendered still 
more revolting the lumps of badly cooked meat, 
which were the only food obtainable. And when he 
had struggled with difficulty through this uninviting 
repast, it was only to encounter a fresh loss in the 
shape of his morning pipe. 

He had always regarded the after breakfast smoke 
as the sweetest and most gratifying of the day, and 
now that it was unprocurable, his soul longed for it 
more than ever. Every day the lack of it became 
more unbearable, and did not tend to the cultivation 
of resignation and good temper. Of all the luxuries 
and comforts which he had lost through his unfortu- 
nate retrogression, this one affected him most, and he 
never succeeded in becoming reconciled to it. 

It was at the moment when this daily craving had 
attained its highest point, that Travers elected that 
morning to attack John on a subject peculiarly dis- 
tiisteful to him. 

‘‘ Do you not think,” he said, ‘‘ that ’twould be 
seemly in you ere long to visit Mary ? ” 

“Mary?” queried John, his thoughts ungallantly 
divided between the girl and the pipe. 

“ Mary Merrill,” said Travers. 

“ Mary Merrill ? ” repeated John. “ Oh yes. The 
girl Sir Walter was engaged to.” 

Travers smiled deprecatingly, and assuming, as he 
always did on such occasions, his blandest manner, 
said, 

“ By my faith, dear Walter, you must strive more 


124 


His Fatal Success, 


manfully with that singular delusion. It matters not 
much when we are alone, but think of the woeful 
effect on others. Mary Merrill, pray remember, is 
the maid to whom you are plighted. 

Bosh ! ” said John. 

I know not rightly the signification of the word, 
but I take it to convey negation or denial,” said 
Travers, his manner becoming more gentle and cat- 
like every moment. 

‘‘ Certainly.” Replied John. “ I utterly repudiate 
and deny any such engagement.” 

My dear Walter,” said Travers, an ugly light in 
his eye, belying his silky tones, I do not think that, 

yet, you thoroughly comprehend your position. 
When you returned from London, a ruined spend- 
thrift, I, as became a good uncle, received you and 
gave you shelter. Since then, during the sickness 
induced by your own reckless folly, yon have lived 
here comfortably at free quarters. It cannot, of a 
surety, be necessary with a man of your parts to call 
attention to the fact that tliis cannot continue. If it 
be possible for you to subsist without money, so much 
the better for you. It is unfortunately not so with 
me. Money I need, and money I must procure. 
Your espousal of Mistress Merrill is the only method 
I perceive of obtaining it.” 

‘‘ So ! ” said John, in rising anger. I am to marry 
her in order to procure funds for you ? ” 

Exactly,” said Travers. 

And that was the reason of your anxiety to pro- 
vide me with a body? ” 

Most certainly it was. But for that, you might 


His Fatal Success, 


125 


have remained a disembodied spirit forever, as far as 
I was concerned.” 

‘‘And do you suppose — ’’cried John furiously — 
“ that I will give my assistance to such a rascally 
business ? ” 

“ My good sir,” said Travers, quite unmoved by 
this outburst. “ Be calm, and above all, do not make 
yourself a laugliing stock. There is nothing whatever 
rascally in the business, as you choose to call it. You 
are betrothed to the damsel, and she is devoted to 
you. You cannot, as a man of honor, withdraw. You 
would but break the poor maid’s heart.” 

This was an argument calculated to strike John in 
his tenderest part. He was naturally kind-hearted, 
and shrank from the slightest appearance of cruelty. 
Travers, seeing the effect he had produced, had no 
further difficulty in persuading him to pay the re- 
quired visit, artfully insinuating that, if he afterwards 
wished to retire from the engagement which- Sir 
Walter had contracted, it might be arranged. John 
was the more willing to agree to this course of action 
when he reflected that it was quite within the bounds 
of possibility that Mary was the girl he had seen the 
day before. 

The Merrill’s house stood four miles from the town, 
and they set out for it on horseback, to John’s ex- 
treme discomfort, for he was not used to riding. 
Fortunately Sir Walter seemed to have been a skilled 
rider, and Jolni found that with his body he had 
acquired all liis purely physical accomplishments. 

He had suggested at first, to Travers’ bewilder- 
ment, that they should go by train, and the ride was 


126 


Hh Fatal Suceesi^, 


enlivened by his endeavoring to explain to Travers' 
satisfaction the advantages and details of that con- 
venient invention. He was a man of keen intelligence, 
and easily grasped the principal points of the system, 
but he met John’s proposal to introduce it into the 
country with determined opposition. 

‘‘ My dear Walter,” he said, ‘"I doubt not, from 
the lucidity of your description, that you have really 
been and travelled by this marvellous fire-eating horse 
of iron. But let me advise 3’ou to confine that knowl- 
edge to yourself. Any attempt to publish it abroad, 
let alone to put it into practice, would inevitably 
lead to your being burned as a sorcerer, or imprisoned 
as a madman.” 

As they traversed the avenue which led to the 
house, he gave John a final word of advice. 

‘‘ I trust,” he said, that you will not make a fool 
of yourself now. If she does not quite satisfy your 
expectations, though she is a charming girl, make the 
best of it. Walter proposed to do so, and I cannot 
see why you should not.” 

Mr. Merrill received them courteously, though he 
still regarded John with evident apprehension, and 
inquired somewhat anxiously after his health. 

Travers assured him that he was perfectly restored, 
and that the temporaiy aberration of intellect, from 
which he had been suffering on the occasion of his 
visit, liad quite disappeared. 

“ That is well, that is well,” said the old gentle- 
man, cheerily. And now I doubt not, J^oung sir, 
that you are as eager to behold Mary as she is to set 
eyefi on you. So away witli you ; she awaits you, if 


iris Fatal Success, 


12T 


I mistake not, in the library. We old folk will stay 
lie re for a gossip.” 

With a parting joke abont young blood, he pushed 
John into the hall and shut the door behind him. 

It was a handsome apartment in which he found 
himself. The walls were panelled and ornamented 
with antlers and other trophies of the chase. Across 
the fiirtlier end ran a gallery, with a broad staircase 
leading up to it on either hand. On one side was a 
large open fire-place, and on the other an oriel win- 
dow, adorned with coats-of-arms in stained glass. 

He had abundant time to observe all this while he 
was puzzling out an escape from the difficulty in 
which he was merged. There were six doors lead- 
ing from the hall, and he did not know which one 
was that of the library. He finally resolved upon 
the only course possible in the case — to try tkem all 
in turn. 

The first two were failures. One was a cupboard 
and the other opened into a stone-paved room in 
which a waiting-maid was engaged upon some domes- 
tic operation. 

Do you lack anj^thing, Sir Walter ?” she asked. 

No,” said John, hastily retreating. “ No, thanks.” 

It would obviously never do for him to inquire for 
the library, which presumably he knew well. 

On entering the tliird door, his eyes fell on a stout, 
red-haired woman of forty or thereabouts, whose pre- 
tensions to personal beauty, if she had ever possessed 
any, had long since vanished. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” said John, politely, pre- 
paring once more to beat a retreat, but she rose from 


128 


His Fatal Success, 


her chair with a slight scream, and rushing at him, 
flung her arms round his neck, crying: 

^‘Walter — my own darling Walter.” 

John’s knees nearly gave way beneath him, as he 
realized that this was Mary. It was too much. 

By great luck the dismay he experienced at the 
first shock, passed unnoticed by his adorer, who was 
fully occupied in lier own blandishments. 

“ Come, sit you down,” she said, when she was 
tired of liugging and kissing him, ‘‘ and let us have a 
nice long talk. I liave much to tell you.” 

He sank into the cliair she led him to, and, to his 
consternation, she sat down on his knees, and once 
more flung her arms round his neck. He was anxious, 
if j)ossible, to avoid any violent rupture at present, 
but this was not to be endured. 

“ Don’t you think,” he said, awkwardly, ‘‘ that we 
could talk more comfortably, if you sat fuither off?” 

It was not, he was forced to acknowledge to him- 
self, a delicate way of putting it, and it was manifest 
that her surprise was accompanied by a good deal of 
disgust. 

Oh, very well,” she said, huffishly, as she rose, ‘‘ as 
you will. You were used to like it.” 

‘‘Walter must have been a man. of iron nerve,” 
was John’s reflection. 

Of course, I do now,” he said aloud. But, you 
see, I have been ill and am not yet very strong.” 

His attempt to soften matters failed of its effect, 
and appeared rather to add fuel to the fire. 

‘‘Well!” she said, with a sniff of indignation. 


His Fatal Success, 


129 


‘‘ illness hath not improved your manners. I vow I 
am not so weighty as all that.” 

No, no,” said he, in terror of an explosion ; ‘‘ but 
now, even the most fairy form ” 

He could not finish the sentence, and endeavored 
to atone for it by what he intended to be a killing 
glance, which he felt was a dismal failure. It ap- 
peared, however, to have the desired effect of mollify- 
ing the wratliful dame, for it was in much tenderer 
tones that she said : 

Nay, then. Let us sit side by side upon this 
settle.” 

He took his seat as far from her as he could, with- 
out appearing to wilfully avoid her. But this ar- 
rangement was evidently not at all to her liking, for 
as she poured forth her gush of devotion to her dar- 
ling Walter, she constantl}^ edged a little nearer to 
him. As constantly he moved away, when he could 
do so without attracting attention. Finally, he 
found himself reduced to the necessity of remaining 
where he was or subsiding onto the floor, so he rose, 
under the pretext of being stiff with riding, and 
strolled to the window. He was not, however, to 
escape so easily; her attachment to Walter was ob- 
viously strong, and her surprise and indignation at 
his coldness were visibly growing. He struggled 
bravely to put a good face on his dislike to tliis 
woman, but Sir Walter had plainly been very warm 
in his attentions to her fortune, and John was quite 
unable to approach to his predecessor’s form. 

“ I am so exceeding glad to see you well again, 
dearest,” she cried, rapturously. 


130 


His Fatal Success, 

And John, after a desperate effort to respond in 
kind, said : 

It’s very kind of you, I’m sure.” 

It cannot be denied that it was scarcely lover-like. 
She could not choose but notice his backwardness, 
and, unfortunately, in attempting to overcome it by 
redoubling her caresses, she only increased it. It was 
clear to him that this could not last much longer. 
Her temper was giving way rapidly under the con- 
stant rebuffs, and he foresaw that her rage would 
eventually burst all bounds. 

‘‘Wherefore so* cold to me, dearest?” she said, 
tragically. “ Walter, do you no longer love me?” 

His answer in the affirmative met with an embrace, 
which made him resolve at all hazards to avoid a 
repetition. 

“ Suppose we join the others,” he said. 

She rose to her feet with a bounce, her eyes flash- 
ing with fury. 

“ What mean you ? Would you insult me?” she 
cried in a shrill voice. 

“ You see, I am not yet equal to the exertion of a 
prolonged conversation,” he said in deprecation. 

She accepted the excuse for the time, but was un- 
mistakably far from satisfied, and her wrath was still 
smouldering. 

“ Walter,” she said, as they reached the door, 
“ you have not yet kissed me as you used to do. Will 
you not grant me one embrace ?” 

There was no help for it. Slowly he bent his head 
and pressed his lips carefully to the back of her neck. 

She tore herself away from him and flung out of 


His Fatal Success, 


131 


the room, slamming the door in his face with a re- 
sounding bang. 

I’ve done it now with a vengeance,” thought 
John, as he proceeded to the other room. 

The rest of their visit was not enjoyable to any of 
the party. The lady was in a towering rage, and did 
not attempt to conceal the fact. John was ill at ease 
and awkward. Travers scowled at him on every 
possible occasion, and Mr. Merrill was seemingly 
looking forward with no agreeable feelings to a tete- 
d-tete with the infuriated maiden after their depart- 
ure. 

John, encouraged and supported by the presence 
of the other two, endeavored to the best of his ability 
to conciliate Mary, by paying her every attention in 
his power, but his disinclination to their previous 
interview was neither forgotten nor forgiven, and all 
his advances were received with open contempt. 

It was a relief to them all when their horses were 
announced. 

No sooner had they got out of earshot of the house 
than John’s long-smothered rage broke out. 

What do you mean, ” he cried, ‘‘ by asking me 
to marry an old harridan like that?” 

‘‘What do you mean by assuming this fantastic 
coxcombry,” retorted Travers angrily. 

“ Why, she’s old enough to be my mother.” 

“ She will the sooner leave you a widower.” 

“ She’ll never have the chance.” 

“Do you mean that you refuse to fulfil your 
engagement? ” 


132 


His Fatal Success, 


“ It is not my engagement, and I will have nothing 
to do with it.” 

Travers, who had been nearer showing his temper 
than John had ever seen him, rode on for some time 
in silence, to recover his equanimity. When he 
spoke again it was in his usual oily tone. 

It were vain to deny that the lady is neither 
young nor fair, but in occupying, by your own con- 
sent, Walter’s body, you have incurred also his 
responsibilities. He had, for reasons of his own, 
plighted his troth to her, and he always, I must say, 
carried out his part of the bargain with the most 
admirable and commendable — fortitude, shall I sa}" ? 
If he could, I cannot for the life of me divine why 
you cannot also. 

But she’s positively hideous ! ” cried John. 

“She is undeniably wealthy,” was the dry re- 
joinder. 

“ I’m not going to marry that creature to find you 
money.” 

“ You cannot by any means, avoid doing so. She 
hath a brother who would kill you on the first liint 
of such a base desertion.” 

“ I don’t care. I won’t.” 

“ I may moreover recall to you that the body you 
now wear, though it can only by a straining of words 
be called yours, is natheless liable to the pangs of 
starvation. Rest assured, my dear Walter, it were 
better to resign yourself. You cannot choose but 
marry her.” 

“If I do,” said John, “ ni be .” 


His Fatal Success, 


133 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE DESERTED COTTAGE. 

During the week that ensued the relations between 
John and Travers were undoubtedly strained. The 
latter had the good sense to leave the matter of the 
engagement entirely in abeyance, but he had clearly 
in no way changed his attitude in regard to it, and 
John was in constant fear of a renewal of the subject. 
Neither was any further reference made to the lack 
of money ; but he thought he perceived a tendency to 
pinching and parsimony which seemed to indicate 
that it had not existed in Travers' imagination alone, 
and that his warning was not a vain one. 

This reflection filled John with great uneasiness. 
He was, as he knew too well, entirely dependent 
upon Travers, and without his constant assistance 
and advice was worse than helpless. He was still 
ignorant of many details of Sir Walter’s past life, 
being only aware that it had been, to say the least, a 
stormy one. He was liable at any moment to 
encounter persons, with whom his predecessor had 
had relations, of a more or less shady character, and 
never went out without the fear of some disagreeable 
adventure. . 

It was clear that much of the story was unknown 
even to Travers, for he discovered by careful inquiries 


134 


I£iS Fatal S^iccess. 


that he was completely ignorant of the existence of 
the girl he had met in the lane. 

He had not seen her since that day, and was 
beginning to fear that he had mortally offended her, 
and that the rupture was permanent. It was with 
considerable surprise that he realized how seriously 
this notion affected him. He could not believe that 
she could have taken so strong a hold upon his heart 
in so short a space of time ; but it was, he felt, 
undeniable that she had done so. Every afternoon 
he sought the end of the garden, filled with an eager 
hope that he should find her there ; and every after- 
noon he came back in bitterer disappointment. 

But on March the twenty-fifth, one week after his 
unfortunate visit to Mary, he found, not indeed the 
girl herself, but a short note which he concluded 
must be from her. It was badly written in the small 
cramped hand of the period, which he still found 
considerable difficulty in deciphering. 

“Dearest Walter,” it ran, “ I find I can no longer 
nourish resentment against you. Meet me, to-mor- 
row evening at seven, at the dear old place. Your 
most loving Rose.” 

Rose, then, was her name. He retraced his steps 
with a beating heart. He should see her again. His 
breast was overflowing with joy, the very birds in the 
trees seem to call “ Rose, Rose, Rose,” when sud- 
denly his glowing hopes were crushed ruthlessly to 
the ground. How could he me her? Where was 
“ the dear old place ? ” 

All that evening, and all next day, this difficulty 
haunted and harassed him. 


His Fatal Success, 


135 


“ If,” he reflected — I fail to keep the appoint- 
ment, I shall offend her irretrievably, and reconcilia- 
tion will be impossible. She will, not unnaturally, 
look upon it as an intentional slight, which she will 
never forgive. Yet how can I meet her when I do not 
know the place of rendezvous ? ” 

As the time of the assignation drew near he w^as 
almost mad with despair, and his restless irritation 
finally attained such a pitch that he could not endure 
to remain within doors. Wrapping himself in a cloak 
he wandered out. 

So absorbed was he in his dark communings, so 
torn with vexation, that he did not notice where his 
steps were leading him until he found liimself in a 
narrow winding lane, shut in on either side by lofty 
hedges, which was quite strange to him. As, how- 
ever, in his present state of suspense, it was utterly 
indifferent to him whither he went, he made up his 
mind to follow it. In about ten minutes he emerged 
from it into an open clearing, surrounded on all sides 
by a dense coppice, in the centre of which stood a 
ruined and deserted cottage. 

Vaguely, and with no settled purpose, he strolled 
across the broken ground before liiin, and stood in 
the open doorway. The sun had set, but there was 
still enough light in the sky to dimly illuminate the 
interior, and he was aware of a figure standing by the 
empty hearth. 

There was a cry of joy, and in an instant Rose, 
laughing and crying at the same moment, was clasped 
in his arms. 

It was clear that during his intense preoccupation 


136 


His Fatal Success, 


Sir Walter’s body had moved of its own volition in 
the well-known direction. 

“ Oh, you have come, you have come,” cried Rose, 
as he kissed her again and again. “I feared so much 
that you would not. 

She was in a wild flutter of joy and self-reproach. 

How good you are,” she said over and over again. 

I was so naughty the other day, and I thought 
perhaps you would never forgive me. You have for- 
given me, have you not ? ” 

“Forgiven you?” cried John, gazing down into 
the appealing eyes turned up to his. “Why, my 
dearest life, there was nothing to forgive.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, yes, there was,” she answered, with 
a pretty air of affected rebuke. “ I was very cross 
and wicked ; hut come and sit down and forgive me 
again.” 

John did not need this time to be reminded to 
share his cloak with her, and as she nestled close to 
him, wliile they sat side by side on the stone seat 
which still stood in the chimney corner, he felt that 
he was finally and hopelessly in love with this dear, 
confiding girl. As she chattered gayly the sweet 
nothings which time out of mind have constituted 
the greater part of lovers’ talk, he was racked in- 
ternally with fierce remorse. He loved her so truly 
and sincerely that he could not bear the thought of 
deceiving her, even with the best intentions. It 
seemed a cowardly and villainous thing to take 
such simple love and confidence on false pretences. 
Although he knew well how far better it was for lier 
that it was he who held her in his arms and not the 


Hu Fatal Success. 


137 


real Sir Walter, he could not overcome the feeling of 
being a traitor and a scoundrel. 

‘‘Rose, darling,” he said, finally ; “ Blossom, I have 
something I want to tell you, a confession to make to 
you.” 

“ Oh, Walter, what?” she cried, and there was so 
real a light of terror in her startled face that he had 
not the heart to proceed. 

“After all,” he thought, “what is the use? It 
would only render her unhappy I should never be 
able to make her understand. She would think me 
mad.” 

“ Don’t look so frightened, dearest,” he said, aloud? 
“It is nothing much. I have been very ill you know, 
and if at times I seem forgetful or uncertain of tilings 
that have passed you must be patient and forbearing. 
My memory is not what it was. I have forgotten 
many things.” 

That was not what he intended to confess at first ; 
but it was done now and past recall. To her he was 
forever Sir Walter and no other. 

“ Poor dear, poor dear,” she murmured, adding with 
a charming air of triumph, “ but you have not for- 
gotten me ! ” 

Ah! what a twinge wrung poor John’s conscience 
as he kissed her and answered “No.” 

“Walter,” she said, after a space filled with soft 
phrases too delicate to be petrified here into written 
words, “ Walter, I am in distress, dear; in such sore 
distress.” 

“ Distress ? ” he cried, taking the simplest way that 
presented itself of removing the tears that rolled down 


138 


His Fatal Success, 


her smooth round cheeks. Who could bear to 
trouble such a sweet innocent as you, my Blossom?” 

“My brother,” she answered, with a sob. “You 
remember him, do you not ? ” 

“Yes,’’ said John, with an effort, “I remember 
him.” 

“ I think he suspects something,” she went on, 
“ and he insists that I shall marry old Farmer Redferii 
without any further delay.” 

“But, Rose,” cried John, starting to his feet, “you 
must not. I cannot, will not, have it. You shall 
marry no one but me.” 

“ Oh, Walter,” she cried joyfully, rising and cling- 
ing to him, “ will you, will you really ? Oh, save 
me, Walter, save me from him ! I hate liim and I 
love you so much ! ” 

“I will,” cried John, passionately. “I will marry 
you at once. I swear it.” 

“But can you, Walter?” she objected. “You 
said that there were difficulties ; that if you married 
me it must be kept strictly private ; that your uncle 
must never, never know.” 

John's heart swelled with rage at the thought of 
having even to wear the outward form of such a base 
wretch as Sir Walter had too clearly been. 

“1 do not know. I cannot tell. I forget.’’* He 
said, despairingly. “ Bnt you sliall never marry any 
one but me. Rose,’' he went on, appealingly, “ if — 
if the worse came to the worst would you trust your- 
self to me? Would you fly with me? T swear be- 
fore heaven I would marry you at once. May a curse 
rest upon the man who, even in his dreams, could 


His Fatal Success. 


139 


think of injuring such innocence as youfs'. Rose, 
dearest, my Blossom, if I find that I cannot marry 
you here ; that my uncle is immovable ; that the ob- 
Stacies, whatever they may be — I cannot tell now, I 
forget — are unsurpassable, will you confide yourself 
to my honor and come with me ? ” 

She had drawn a little away from him, startled per- 
liaps by his vehemence, with one hand, however, still 
resting on his breast, while his arm still encircled 
her ; but now, after gazing for a moment into his 
earnest eyes, she flung her arms once more around his 
neck, crying : 

“ Trust you, Walter ? Always, always and for- 
ever.” 

And as J ohn kissed her on the lips he felt that he 
had in full measure atoned for the deceit he was com- 
pelled to put upon her. 

It was dark by this time, and as Rose declared she 
must be going, John volunteered to see her safely 
home, an offer which was gladly accepted. 

She lived in a small house about a mile from the 
town, and when he had left her, with a last linger- 
ing kiss at the gate, he turned homewards with a 
heart beating high with joy. He did not know what 
difficulties lay before him, he knew only that Travers 
would surely resolutely oppose the marriage ; but he 
determined that, be the consequences what they 
might, he, and no other, should marry Rose. 

He had not gone far before he met a man slouch- 
ing along the road and addressed him : 

‘‘ Can you tell me, my man, who lives in that house 
yonder ? ” 


140 


His Fatal Success. 


The rustic apparently recognized him by the voice, 
for he burst into jeering laughter. 

“Ah!” he cried, “who indeed? I marvel. Dost 
take me for a fool ? Who lives there ? Who should 
know, an thou dost not. Sir Walter Carlingford ? ” 

There was a tone of menace and contempt in his 
voice, and J ohn left him without a word ; but as he 
proceeded on his way he could still hear the lout be- 
hind him chuckling and sneering to himself. 

His next attempt to discover might have proved 
disastrous, for his question was met by the surly 
reply : 

“ What is that to thee? I do.” 

John’s heart stood still. This was the brother ; 
but it was too late to retreat, and the man did not 
seemingly know Sir Walter. 

“ It’s a nice place,” he said, airily. 

“ Marry, no thanks to thee,” was the encouraging 
rejoinder. 

“ And what might your name be ? ” he asked, 
scarcely expecting an answer. 

“ My name is Garland,” said the other. “ I’m not 
ashamed to own it. I’ll back it against thee or any 
man. Hast anything against it? Eh, hast thou ? ” 
he repeated, coming closer. He had evidently been 
drinking, and John was anxious to escape. But the 
other was not so easily shaken off. 

“ What wouldst thou with me, then ? ” he shouted. 
“ Wlierefore comest thou slinking and spying in the 
dark, asking honest men their names ? Who art thou, 
an that be all, who art thou ? ” 

The fellow was evidently working himself into a 


His Fatal Success, 


141 


fury, and was in just the humor to quarrel with any 
one, so John was beginning to fear that their inter- 
view would end in a personal encounter, when from 
the house behind them a voice, which he knew to be 
Rose’s was heard calling : 

‘‘ William, William ! What are you doing there ? 
Come in.” 

The man turned without another word and went 
in, leaving John free to proceed without further 
molestation. 

Garland,” he said to himself ; ‘‘ Rose Garland. 
It is a pretty name.” 

He would not before have believed that he could 
have felt so happy in his unpleasant situation, but 
that evening he was in a state of perfect, unalloyed 
happiness, the last he was to know for many a long 
day. 


CHAPTER X. 

A DREADFUL ENCOUNTER. 

Troubles now began to gather thickly round Johm 
In the first place, Travers insisted upon his repeating 
the visit to Mary. He pretended to have abandoned 
all idea of the marriage, but he maintained, and John 
was unable to oppose him, that the breach ought, out 
of ordinary respect to the lady, to be brought about 
gradually, and that he should decrease by degrees the 
frequency of his visits instead of suddenly withdraw- 
ing altogethr. 


142 


His Fatal Success, 


Although John did not for a moment believe that 
Travers had so quickly and completely relinquished his 
design, yet this argument was so reasonable, and ap- 
pealed so strongly to his innate proneness to deference 
to women that he yielded to it and visited Mary occa- 
sionally, stipulating however that Travers should 
always accompany him, and that his tete-a-tete inter- 
views with her should be cut as short as possible. 

His distress on these occasions was greatly increased 
by the discovery that, in spite of her somewhat 
ungainly appearance, Mary was in reality a woman 
of good heart and kindly disposition, who was ex- 
tremely devoted to Sir Walter, and was evidently 
deeply hurt by his apparent neglect. 

It grieved him unspeakably to observe the pain she 
endured at his disinclination to her advances, and 
had it been possible he would have endeavored to 
overcome it, and to sacrifice himself for what he saw 
clearly would be her happiness. 

Had it not been for Rose, he might perhaps have 
eventually reconciled himself to this course, but under 
the circumstances it was out of the question. His 
love for Rose increased with each of their meetings, 
which were now tolerably frequent. But even there 
his happiness was considerably disturbed by the 
thought of Mary, and by Rose’s growing uneasiness 
springing from the pressure put upon her by her 
brother. 

At one time, he thought of throwing himself on 
Mary’s generosity, telling her the story of his attach- 
ment to Rose, and appealing to her kindness to release 
him from the engagement. But he was not suffi- 


Ills Fatal Success, 


143 


ciently sure of her, and the fear that she might betra}/ 
the state of the case to Travers, which would inevit- 
ably ruin all, prevented him carrying out his purpose. 

Travers, in the meantime, seemed to be perfectly 
unsuspicious and content with the progress of affairs, 
though John soon had reason to believe that he 
watched him more closely than he appeared to do. 

This condition of painful doubt and hesitation con- 
tinued for six weeks, and might have been prolonged 
indefinitely, had not an event befallen, which precipi- 
tated matters. 

On the tenth of May, having, as usual, conducted 
Rose safely to her gate after their meeting, he was 
strolling leisurely along the road in the direction of 
the town. 

It was a warm night, but the clouds had gathered, 
threatening rain, and it was very dark. 

Shortly after parting from Rose, he became aware 
of a footstep in the darkness, not far behind him. It 
followed so persistently, keeping time with his own, 
and neither gaining upon him nor dropping behind, 
that loosening his sword in its sheath, he stopped and 
turned. The footstep behind him ceased at the same 
instant and dead silence ensued. He stood for some 
minutes listening intently, but vainly, and then re- 
sumed his walk at a quicker pace. The step behind 
him increased in rapidity to the same extent. Once 
more he stopped, and once more utter silence reigned 
around. He started to run, and on the road behind 
him he heard the beat of running feet. 

He reached before long a place where the trees 
arched over, joining above. The spot was gloomy in 


144 


Ills Fatal Success, 


tlie broad glare of noon, at night it was dark as pitch. 
As he entered it, from the hedgeside, a hundred yards 
or so in advance, came a low whistle which was an- 
swered from behind him. He stopped on the instant, 
and again all was fearfully still. 

This was getting unbearable. It was plain that he 
was caught in a trap of some sort, and after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, he concluded that it would be better 
to turn back and face his mysterious pursuer before 
he was completely surrounded. He accordingly 
retraced his steps, having previously drawn his 
sword. 

He had not gone far before he saw, against the 
slightly brighter surface of the dusty road, a darker 
mass, which he rightly conjectured to be a man. 

“Who’s there?” he cried. “Speak, or I strike.” 

“Softly, softly. Sir Walter,” said a gruff voice. 
“ Speak not so loudly.” 

“Who are you?” said John, in wonder. 

His first impulse was to deny the identity, but it 
was so evident that the man had followed him know- 
ingly, that he judged it to be useless. 

“What, know you not your old friend?” was the 
reply. “ ’Tis true ’tis dark as hell’s mouth here, but 
you should know a comrade’s voice — Bill Wringley.” 

Who, John wondered, was this coarse ruffian, who 
called himself a friend. His name was unknown, 
and judging by his tone and manner he could hardly 
have been Sir W alter’s associate for any good. 

“What do you want with me?” he said. 

“ Ah, that is better, let us talk this business out 


Hts Fatal Sacceas, 


145 


friendly and familiar like. But first I will summon 
Dick.” 

With which words he gave a similar whistle to the 
one that had first alarmed John. 

Who is Dick ? ” said he. 

Who is Dick/’ repeated the other. Lord, lord ! 
to think a man should so forget his best friends, as 
aided him in his trouble. Here is Dick. I dare swear 
he will remember you.” 

‘‘ Sarvice, Sir Walter,” said the man who now ap- 
proached, in a rather more respectful tone. 

“ Sir Walter hath forgotten us,” said the man 
called Bill. Pitiful, aint it, the ingratitude of this 
world ? Howsomever, I should not be surprised if we 
recalled ourselves to his recollection. What say 
you?” 

He concluded with a chuckle, in which Dick joined 
him. 

“ What do you want with me? ” said John again. 
They had got him between them, with his back to 
the hedge, so that flight was impossible. 

‘‘ Money,” they answered in a breath. 

‘‘ Then you couldn’t have come to a worse place. I 
have none.” 

‘‘ You must obtain some,” said Dick bluntly. 

“ What do you mean?” cried John indignantly. 

Come, my master,” said Dick roughly. Don’t 
keep us parleying here all night. Pay up.” 

‘‘ Softly, softly, mate,” interposed Bill. ‘‘ Let us 
talk this matter out quietly, as gentlemen to gentle- 
men. Look you here. Sir AValter, 1113" mate Dick and 


146 


His Fatal Success. 


myself are out at heels, without a groat, and in our 
distress who should we apply to, but to you?” 

‘‘Why to me?” said John, a chill horror growing 
up within him. What was Sir Walter’s connection 
with these scoundrels ? 

“ Oh, stow that,” ejaculated Dick, who seemed to 
be of an irrascible temperament. 

But Bill resumed in the same cringing tone. 

“ It’s only human nature wlien you need a helping 
hand to turn to them as you has helped yourself.” 

“Helped! ” exclaimed John, in what they clearly 
regarded as affected surprise. “Helped! In what?” 

Dick gave a snort of disgust, but Bill was quite 
unmoved. 

“ ’Tis small pleasure raking up old matters,” he 
said. “You know, and I know, and Dick here, he 
knows. And there is some things as is better guessed 
at than spoken out, even among friends.” 

“ I swear, I’ve no notion to what your refer,” cried 
John, in despair. 

“Say you so?” said Bill. “You bear a most 
accommodating memory about with you, I must say, 
young master. Naming names can do no ill. What 
if I says to you — Cricnell Common ? ” 

He paused, as if expecting to produce a great 
effect, in which he was, not unnaturally, disap- 
pointed. 

“Will not that serve? Your conscience asks a 
deal of jogging. I would I had but half of it. Let 
us try another,” he continued, lowering his voice to 
a hoarse whisper — “ Roger Helmsley.” 


His Fatal Success, 


147 


The name was faintly familiar to John, but he 
could not for the life of him remember in what con- 
nection, so he remained silent. This unforeseen 
attitude of Sir Walter’s was not without its effect 
upon the men. Dick broke out into open curses, and 
even the bland Bill’s temper was obviously giving 
way under the strain, for there was a shade of menace 
in his voice as he went on : 

“ Cricnell Common — Roger Helmsley : them's the 
words, mate, and the tottle is gold, for me and Dick 
here.” 

John’s irritation under this mysterious hinting 
culminated at last. 

‘‘ You get no money from me, I can tell you. As 
for Cricnell Common and Roger Helmsley, what are 
they to me, but mere empty names?” 

Bill gave a low whistle of surprise, and Dick in- 
dulged in a flowery monologue not suited to the 
exigencies of polite society. 

“ Look here ! ” said Bill fiercely, enough palaver. 
’Tis money or swing, I tell you plainly. Swing or 
money, that’s the motto.” 

‘‘Swing ! ” cried John in horror. 

“ Ah, that’s it,” said Dick, accompanying his words 
with an extremely disagreeable piece of pantomime. 
“Swing. And if we swing, so do you. You may lay 
to that, my lad.” 

John’s brain was in a whirl. What was this secret 
between them ? It was manifestly more than dis- 
creditable, it was criminal. For his own safety in 
the future it was essential to know the worst. 

“ You must e.xcuse me^” he said wildly. “ 1 have 


148 


His Fatal Success, 


been ill. My memory in many things is gone. What 
do you mean?” 

“ A plague on’t,” said Bill. Do you mean to 
stand there telling me that you have forgotten 
inducing me and Dick here, for a handsome remun- 
eration, I grant you that, a handsome remuneration, 
to put a knife into Roger Helmsley, as was too 
familiar with a certain fair lady, the same being 
Mistress Merrill, which was done quiet and satis- 
factory, according to orders, on Cricnell Common.” 

‘‘God help me!” cried John. “Yes, yes, I had 
forgotten.” 

“ ’Tis no avail to try denying of it,” remarked 
Dick, “ because we have it in your own hand of 
write.” 

John was utterly overwhelmed, stunned by the 
fear and horror of this revelation. It was useless to 
attempt denial. There could be no doubt that Sir 
Walter had done this thing. 

“So,” continued Bill, “seeing as that handsome 
remuneration is spent, we naturally comes to you, 
quiet and gentlemanlike, and says, ‘ Money ’ says we. 
‘ Got none,’ says you. ‘ Get some,’ says we. ‘ Money 
or swing.’ Them’s the words ; eh, mate ? ” 

“ Money or saving,” responded Dick. 

“ Get it, but how ? ” 

“ Another trifling forgery might serve,” suggested 
Bill. 

“ Or a moonlight excursion in this beautiful coun- 
try,” said Dick. 

Forgery, highway robbery I What was this net of 
villainy in which he found himself entangled ? 


His Fatal Success, 


149 


‘‘ It’s impossible,” he groaned in an agony of 
apprehension. 

“ Dick !” exclaimed Bill suddenly, “ I have a 
notion. Sir Walter knows Master Merrill’s house 
like A B C in the hornbook. Suppose we break in 
there. There’s money and plate enough there to 
make men of us for life.” 

Good,” said Dick approvingly. Good, mate.” 

“ All right, break away,” said John determining 
to forewarn the proposed victims. But Bill was 
much too sharp to be caught in such an obvious 
snare. 

“Ah, verily,” he said, “ but you come in company.” 

“I!” said John. “Why?” 

“ Think j^ou that we are going to face the hazard 
of your forewarning them, and getting us laid by the 
heels. No, no, you come too, and we shall be secure. 
In any case, money it is, in some fashion.” 

“ I’ll think of it,” said John. “ How long will you 
give me ? ” 

“ One week. I think we can manage that much ; 
eh, Dick ? ” 

Dick assented, and they turned to go, Bill pausing 
to give the poor wretch a final word of warning. 

“ In one week’s time we will await you at the old 
ken. Either you bring money, or you consent to the 
enterprise — or the next morning an information is 
laid afore the justices, and you know what the con- 
sequences will be then.” 

Dick repeated his unpleasant piece of pantomime, 
and they vanished into the darkness. 

As their retreating footsteps died away in the 


150 


His Fatal Success. 


distance, Joliii sank with a shudder upon the bank 
behind him. Heedless of the rain which pouring 
down, dripped from the trees upon him, heedless of 
the howling wind and muttering thunder, he sat, he 
knew not how long, his soul shrivelled with the sick 
agony of consternation and disgust. Never until 
then had he realized thoroughly the full terror of 
what he had brought upon himself. 

What a scoundrel, what a fool Sir Walter must 
have been to have put himself so utterly in the power 
of two such unscrupulous rogues ! And he, who was 
innocent, would have to bear the punishment. What 
could he do? How could he save himself? 

The threats of the two villains were no idle ones. 
He knew that if they were disappointed of the 
expected blackmail, they would not hesitate to 
denounce Sir Walter to the authorities, and he, John, 
would suffer in his place. 

If he did not procure the money he would in- 
dubitably be hanged, yet he could only do so by 
staining himself with crime. He vowed that he 
would sooner pay the penalty of Sir Walter’s wicked- 
ness than do that. 

Slowly and wearily he crept home, weakened and 
shattered by the blow his peace had received. 

Travers, on liis entrance, was seated as he had first 
seen him on that fatal night, and the siglit revived 
all his terror and remorse. 

“ My dear Walter ! ” he said looking up, what a 
sad plight you are in. Where have you been, and 
what ails you ? ” 

^VRelease me,” cried John, advancing fiercely. 


I£is Fatal Success. 


151 


“ You must, you shall. I insist you release me, now, 
at once.” 

Travers smiled malevolently, but did not stir. 

‘‘ Why?” he said, ‘‘what hath befallen you?” 

Briefly, feverishly, John told him the whole story, 
his interview with the men, and the discovery they 
had made to him. 

“ Ah ! ” said Travers at the end, without betraying 
any emotion. “ So it was your achievement, my dear 
Walter. I have always suspected that it was your 
handiwork ; but out of respect to a relative, you un- 
derstand, I concealed my suspicions. Tt was folly in 
you, however, to put it into writing. Take my ad- 
vice, my dear Walter, the advice of an old, experi- 
enced man — never put pen to paper if you can avoid 
it.” 

“What am I to do? ” cried John, revolted at this 
exhibition of callous iniquity. 

“ Do ? ” said Travers, “ marry, procure the money.” 

“ Yes ; but how ? ” 

“I liave it not to give you. I would not, an I had. 
You must e’en go with them.” 

“I cannot, I will not,” said John. 

“ Oh, very well, very well. Settle it your own way. 
If you choose to be hanged ” 

“ You must release me,” said Jolm again. “You 
can, you shall.” 

“ Enough of this,” said Travers, rising. “ Once for 
all, I will not.” 

Jolin tried to shake liis resolution by prayers, en- 
treaties, threats ; but all in vain. 

“ What use have you for me now ?” he pleaded. 


152 


His Fatal Success. 


“You have yourself consented to my breaking the 
engagement with Mary. 

“ Pool ! ” thundered Travers. “ Think you I am so 
easily thwarted? I have undone all the mischief 
your blundering fastidiousness has wrought. Your 
betrothal stands as firm as ever. Go ! Rob or hang, 
I care not which, but I will never release you.” 

John rushed from the room and, soaked to the skin 
as he was, flung liimself upon his bed in a frenzy of 
mingled rage and fear. When the first paroxysms of 
his grief were over, he began to regard the situation 
more calmly. A ray of hope awoke in his mind. 

Might he not, of his own accord, retrace the path 
that had led to this awful dilemma? Was Travers’ 
consent or assistance really essential? He would, at 
all events, attempt it. 

But it was useless. He could not abstract his 
mind. He had no hold in his old life such as Travers 
had afforded him. His mind wandered aimlessly. 

Thoughts of the two ruffians surged through liis 
brain, and Rose’s face came like a vision of heaven 
to distract him. 

Weaiied out, at last, he fell asleep. 


His Fatal Success, 


153 


CHAPTER XL 

TWO WOMEN. 

One week. One short week. 

To those who look forward to same eagerly 
wished-for pleasure it may seem to drag its leaden 
length along wearily enough ; but to John, whose 
only anticipations were of unimaginable horrors, it 
flew appallingly fast. 

It had already more than half passed before he 
could find courage to venture from the shelter of the 
house, and even then it was only after dark that lie 
dared to steal fearfully and doubtfully to the deserted 
cottage where he was accustomed to meet Rose. 

He had come to a final desperate resolve. His 
only chance of safety lay in flight, and his object was 
to persuade Rose to accompany him. He could not 
leave her behind to be forced into an unhappy mar- 
riage with the wealthy old hunks her brother de- 
signed her for. Life without her presented to him 
too drear and desolate a prospect. 

Fortunately, some instinct had prompted her also 
to seek the meeting-place that evening. After the 
first interchange of caresses and solicitudes, he laid 
the matter briefly and forcibly before her. 

He bitterly deplored to himself the fact that he 


154 


His Fatal SuceesSo 


was unable to reveal to her the true cause of his 
flight, but he was so firmly established in her belief 
as the real Sir W alter that to do so would only heap 
ignominy upon himself. 

An imaginary irreconcilable quarrel with his uncle 
was the reason he alleged to her for the necessity of 
instant and secret departure. 

“ Rose, my dearest,” he concluded, “ without you 
life to me is valueless, neither can I leave you to fall 
a victim to your brother’s avarice. I cannot, as you 
know, wed you here before I go ; but I swear to j^ou 
that I will do so at the earliest opportunity; and 
until then no sister could be treated with greater re- 
spect than you shall receive from me. It is useless 
to heap asseveration upon asseveration. If you do 
not believe me, they would be unavailing ; if you do, 
unnecessary. Rose, dearest heart, think well before 
you give an answer, which must determine the hap- 
piness of both our lives. Will you trust me ?” 

There was no hesitation in her voice, no doubt in 
her face, as she flung herself into liis arms, crying : 

‘‘I will trust you, Walter.” 

Tlieir plan was quickly arranged. They were to 
meet at nine o’clock on the next night but one on 
the same spot, thence to turn their backs forever on 
the old life and to enter into a future of unalloyed 
bliss. 

“ Walter, dear,” said Rose, as they passed gently 
through the lane on their way noine in the moonlight, 
you will be true to me, will you not ? ” 

The question was asked in desire for the repetition 


iris Fatal Siiccessc 


155 


of a pleasing certainty, not in any doubt, and he an- 
swered her only with a kiss. 

As they moved slowly onwards John, gazing down 
into the sweet face that was, he thought, soon to be 
wholly his, felt her stop, and saw an expression of 
fear growing in her eyes. He glanced hastily up and 
and saw, standing before them, so as to bar their way, 
the figure of a woman. 

The light from the moon fell full upon her and he 
recognized her at once. It was Mary, 

‘‘Who is that woman?” Rose whispered breath- 
lessly, and then all was silent between them. 

He struggled vainly to collect his ideas. What 
could he do or say? To one of these women, if not 
to both, he must appear despicable beneath con- 
tempt; blit, although he was innocent, he could find 
no word to say in his defence. The only explanation 
he could offer would be to them so wild and incredi- 
ble that it was better to attempt none. 

“ This, then,” said Mary, breaking silence at length, 
in a deep, pained voice, “ this, then, is the cause of the 
coldness I liave noticed between us ?” 

John bowed his head, but found no voice to an- 
swer. Rose clung to him in terror, but said nothing. 

“ Wherefore did you not tell me ? ” Mary con- 
tinued, after a pause. “Think you I am so con- 
temptible a thing as to force you into a marriage 
against your inclinations. You sought me ; I did 
not seek you. Against the promptings of my own 
reason you persuaded me to believe you ; you con- 
vinced me that you loved me ; you taught me too 
easily to love you in return ; and tins is my reward. 


156 


His Fatal Success. 


Oh, Walter, Walter! why have you done this thing-? 
I do not blame you for giving your love to one 
younger and fairer than I, but why did you come to 
trouble my peace ? Why?” she added, with a bitter 
laugh. It is needless to ask when I know. It was 
for my wealth.” 

‘‘No, no,” cried John, in broken accents, over- 
come by the dignity of her grief. 

“ Hush I ” she said. “ Do not gainsay me. Do 
not add to your baseness by denying it. Let me 
look upon the beauty that has strength to so degrade 
you.” 

She put out her hand and drawing Rose shrinking 
and trembling towards her, turned her downcast face 
to the light. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ poor child, you are fair. I should, 
perhaps, pity your lot more than mine. Our fates 
would have been much alike. Yours the deceived 
mistress, mine the deserted wife.” 

“ Mary I” cried John stung by this undeserved ac- 
cusation, “by Heaven ! you wrong me.” 

He stopped, and as she waited for him to continue, 
the silence was broken only by the sobs of the af- 
frighted and bewildered Rose. 

What could he say in refutation ? How could he 
answer her? To tell the truth was impossible. Yet 
if he did not, how could he defend himself ? He knew 
that her conjecture was in part correct, that Sir Wal- 
ter had intended this double villainy. How then 
could he clear himself ? His state of mind was pit- 
eous, filled as he was with all the shame due to the 


His Fatal Success. 


157 


real Sir Walter, and all the indignation at the imput- 
ation endured by his unhappy self. 

I am, at least, glad,” said Mary, as he remained 
speechless, “ that you have enough sense of honor 
left not to add falsehood to your disgrace. Tell me, 
child,” she went on, turning to Rose, “ has he taught 
you to love him also? ” 

“ I do love him,” murmured Rose, holding out her 
hand in womanly sympathy to John. He seized it 
and seemed to gather strength. 

And he loves you ? ” 

‘‘He has told me so,” whispered Rose shyly. 

“ He has told you so,” repeated Mary, bitterly. 

“ Mary, Miss Merrill ! ” interrupted John, “listen 
to me I beg. If I could tell you, if I could make 
you believe the whole truth, I could clear myself, I 
swear; but you would not, you could not believe me. 
Let me at least explain. I never, so help me 
Heaven in my direst need, I never for an in- 
stant contemplated the treachery you charge me 
with. I have been a coward ; I am not and never 
have been the scoundrel you think me. That I 
should before have told you the state of the case 
I freely and willingly confess, but indeed I did not 
dare. I must suffer your contempt in silence, for I 
cannot tell you why. But I never in one single 
thought meant harm to this innocent girl.” 

“I alone was to suffer,” said Mary, “your profes- 
sions to me were lies.” 

“ I never said I loved you,” cried John impetuous- 
ly, “in all our intercourse I never gave you cause to 
believe so. I mean — God ! what can I say ? ” 


158 


His Fatal Success, 


Say nothing, if you cannot speak the truth, hut 
act, and for the future act with honesty. It is not for 
me to reproach you ; of what you done to me I have 
no more to say. If you would make reparation, 
marry that poor girl at your side, and I — I will strive 
to forget you.” 

The indignation that had held Iier up so long, 
broke down at last, and she burst into tears. John 
suffering unspeakable tortures, stood in helpless si- 
lence. Rose in the true kindliness of her loving 
little heart, flew to lier endeavoring to comfort and 
console her. 

‘•No, no,” she cried, the sympathetic tears pouring 
down her cheeks, “ you shall not sacrifice yourself 
for me. I will give him up. I cannot bear to see you 
so unhappy. I love liim, ’tis true, but I can but die.” 

John still stood silent — ^lielpless — while the two 
women wept, and strove as warmly each to sacrifice 
herself, as if it were to render herself happy, he had 
no word to say. In Ins heart he cursed Sir Walter, 
but he could not exculpate himself. It enraged him 
to think that he, whose tenderness for women was 
almost quixotic, could be supposed to have aimed 
so cowardly a blow at two such loving hearts. For 
Mary, he knew now as he had never known before, 
carried beneath her grotesque exterior a true, strong 
woman’s heart. 

“ No, no,” she cried at length, when the first pas- 
sionate outburst of her grief had subsided. 

She approached John, leading Rose by the hand. 

“ Walter,” she said, “ speak truth now as you 
have faith in Heaven. Do you truly love this maid?” 


His Fatal Success, 


159 


‘‘ By all my hopes of salvation,” he said, firmly, 
“ I do.” 

“ And you never loved me ? ” she asked with a 
rising sob. 

II is only answer was a groan. 

Then take her,” she said, pressing her gently to 
him, and as you are a Christian man, see to it that 
no ill or suffering ever come to her from you.” 

She turned to go, but John, in an agony of re- 
morse for a wrong which was not his doing, fell on 
his knees crying. 

“ Mary, will you not say that you forgive me ? ” 

She paused for a moment, tears running down her 
cheeks, wringing her hands together in her misery. 

“ No, no,” she wailed, ‘‘not yet. I cannot yet.” 

And turning she sped away into the night. 

John buried his face in his hands with a groan. 
Presently he felt a gentle hand softly stroking his 
hair. He looked up, and beheld Rose gazing tear- 
fully down upon him. 

“ Walter,” she said, “ will you not speak to me ? ” 

“ Rose,” he cried, leaping to his feet, “ can you 
really forgive me ? Do you still love me ? ” 

“ How can I choose but love you ? ” she answered, 
as she sank into his arms, where she lay in a tender 
grateful embrace. 

“Do you know Walter,” she said, as they re- 
sumed their interrupted way homewards, “ since 
your illness I find you strangely altered?” 

“ For the better ? ” asked he, anxiously. 

“For the better always. You are the same, yet 
someliow very different. There was a fierce, hungry 


160 


His Fatal Success, 


light ill your eyes that seemed to scorch me. Some- 
times of old you used to frighten me. But now when 
I look into them, seeking yet fearing it, I find nothing 
but true love, perfect truth and trust.” 

“ So may you always,” he said solemnly, drawing 
her to him. 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE DARK HOUSE. 

That TraveiV seeming want of suspicion had been 
merely a mask to conceal the closest watchfulness 
was soon conclusively proved to John’s dissatisfac- 
tion. He had always appeared equally ignorant of, 
and indifferent to John’s outgoings and incomings, 
but that he had nil tlie while been thoroughly cog- 
nizant of them was now to be shown. 

On the niglit on which he had arranged to meet 
Rose for the last time at the deserted cottage, the 
night which was to see them joining their fortunes, 
and wandering out homeless into the world, with only 
their mutual love to support them — on tliat night, 
Travers, on one pretext or another, refused to let 
John out of his sight, even for a moment. It was 
done so simply, so airily, that lie was for a long time 
doubtful whether it was a deep design or merely an 
unfortunate coincidence. After a time, however, tlie 
effort seemed so persistent, the intention so obvious, 


His Fatal Success, 


161 


that he was convinced that Travers had really an 
object in his obtrusive companionship, and that he 
had in some mysterious way become acquainted with 
his appointment with Rose. 

How he could have done so passed John’s compre- 
liension, for even if, as he would not for an instant 
suspect, Mary had revealed to him the intrigue which 
she had detected, she could not have Informed liiin of 
the vital importance of that particular meeting, be- 
cause she herself was ignorant of it. 

That he did know could not be doubted, for it was 
not until after midnight,' when all chance of Rose’s 
still lingering at the trysting place had gone, that he 
relaxed his vigilance, and under the pretext of weari- 
ness, left John to himself. Hoping against hope, he 
at once set out for the cottage, and drew little conso- 
lation on his road from the fancy that, as he softly 
closed the house door, he heard in the darkened 
passage behind him a low sneering chuckle. 

He found, as he feared, that Rose had long since 
departed, and had, in all probability, crept home 
broken-hearted at what she could not but believe to 
be his perfidy or forgetfulness. 

It was in no agreeable frame of mind that he 
sought his room. He was lashed to madness by the 
thought of Rose waiting hour after hour, with a still 
sinking heart, for him who never came, her disap- 
pointment turning to despair, and her despair tinged 
more and more with doubt and distrust ; and if 
Travers actually possessed the intimate knowledge 
of John’s thoughts and actions which he appeared to 
have, he must have trembled not a little at the narrow 


162 


His Fatal Success. 


escape he enjoyed that night from personal violence 
in reward of his craft and cunning. 

Poor John’s mental disturbance was in no wise 
lightened by the reflection that the failure of his 
scheme entailed upon him the disagreeable necessity 
of an interview the next night with the two ruffians 
whom he was particularly anxious to avoid. 

The next day, throwing aside all caution, he en- 
deavored eagerly to get speech with Rose. If he 
could but arrange with her to fly that evening, and 
could avoid encountering Travers in the meantime 
he believed that escape was still possible. He had 
not unfrequently met her in his daily wanderings in 
the town, when they had invariably passed one an- 
other as strangers with nothing but a shy glance of 
loving recognition. On that day, he was resolved, if 
he could discover her, to cast all subterfuge to the 
winds, and si)eak to her, if but for a moment. But 
though he sought her in all the most likely spots, he 
could nowhere get a glimpse of the little rose-colored 
hood he knew and loved so well. Unless he braved 
the risk of going boldly to her cottage he was doomed 
to failure, and after mature deliberation he rejected 
that expedient as altogether too dangerous. 

Night came, and he was finally committed to one 
of two courses, either to keep his appointment witli 
the men, or to fly alone, leaving Rose to her fate 
The latter project was scarcely half-formed in his 
mind befoie it was dismissed, and he was reluctantly 
compelled to reconcile himself to the former. 

Although he was in ignorance of the appointed 
spot, lie suffered no uneasiness on that score, as he 


His Fatal Success. 


163 


felt sure from his previous experience, that Sir 
Walter’s body, if left to its own guidance, would find 
the path liis feet mu^t undoubtedly have trodden 
often. 

Accordingly, when the time approached, he set out, 
laboriousl}^ avoiding all thoughts of the direction in 
which he was going, and permitting his feet to stray 
whither they would. It was more difficult to achieve 
this purpose consciously, than unconsciously as he 
had done before, but by strictly confining his medi- 
tations to Rose, he succeeded. 

He was still wandering, hand in hand with her, by 
a cool stream in a gentle summer land, when he found 
himself standing in front of a low-frowning door, at 
which, without reflection, he had already knocked in 
a peculiar measure which he could not afterwards 
recall. 

The house stood in the worst part of the town, in- 
habited mostly by the rough population, who found 
occupation on the liver whicli ran close beside it. It 
was a gloomy, tumble-down building, and as far as 
he could see, was utterly deserted. The windows 
tliat faced the road were devoid of glass, and the 
rooms within were empty and damp-smelling. The 
place was apparently little better than a ruin. 

So desolate was it that he was about to withdraw, 
under the notion that he had failed in his quesfi 
when he heard a shuffling footstep in the stone-paved 
passage behind the sullen door, and the shrill creak 
of a wicket panel withdrawn. 

Who is there ? ” said a low, hoarse voice from 
within. 


164 


His Fatal Saccess, 


It is I,” said John. 

‘^One eye or two?” was the rejoinder, and John, 
without thinking why, replied : 

One eye.” 

Enter one eye, and don't wink,” said the voice ; 
and the clank of a chain, and the harsh screech of 
rusty bolts drawn back told him that he had in some 
fashion unknown to himself, satisfied the doubts of 
the mysterious doorkeeper, and that the entrance was 
clear to him. 

He passed down a passage, while his unseen inter- 
locutor with a practised hand, swiftly once more 
bolted and chained the door behind him. 

When he had apparently traversed the whole depth 
of the house, he found himself in a small court-yard, 
enclosed on all sides by lofty buildings, in the further 
corner of which a lighted window shone dimly. He 
began to cross the intervening space, bnt had not 
gone far before he struck his shins smartly against 
something hard, and only saved himself by clutching 
a chain which his grasp providentially encountered, 
from falling headlong into a well which yawned be- 
neath him, the stars above reflected in the still sur- 
face at an immeasurable depth below. 

At the noise of his stumble the door of the room 
was thrown wide, and as he recovered his feet he saw, 
standing in the lighted space, a singularly small 
and withered old hag, holding a rushlight above her 
head, and peering out into the darkness. 

Sir Walter ! ” she exclaimed, as John approached, 
in a voice which made him start. It was a deep, 
strong bass, so extraordinarily out of proportion to the 


His Fatal Success. 


165 


wizened frame that produced it that surprise struck 
him like a shock. 

Hast forgotten the well ? ” she said, in evident 
astonishment. 

“ Yes,” said John, hesitatingly, “ I forgot the 
well.” 

That is strange,” she answered, her deep tone so 
full of ominous meaning, of mysterious import that he 
carefully refrained from any other inquiry. He was 
not anxious to learn what good or bad reason Sir 
Walter had for remembering it. 

“You are waited for,” she went on, and pressing 
on a panel which was undistinguishable from the rest 
of the wall, revealed a winding staircase, and stood 
aside as if to let him pass. It was an evil-looking, 
evil-smelling place, but he had no option but to pro- 
ceed. The panel was closed behind him the instant 
he had entered, and he was plunged in darkness as 
black “as the throat of a wolf,” as the saying goes ; 
the place itself being by no means unsuggestive^of 
that unamiable portal. 

He had stumbled upwards for a space that seemed 
interminable, when suddenly he heard a grinding 
noise overhead, and a flood of light poured upon him 
from above. Lightly springing up the remaining 
steps, he emerged in a circular room. A narrow table 
ran round it, and against the wall behind it a stone 
bench, on which twelve or fourteen men sat silently 
staring at him. 

By a singular freak of the builders, the trap-door 
through which he had entered, and which had been 
closed behind him by some invisible agency, was lo- 




His Fatal Success, 


cated in the very centre of the apartment, so that he 
stood for some time surrounded on all sides by speech- 
less, motionless men. Turn in which direction he would, 
his gaze encountered a pale, emotionless face and blank 
watchful eyes. No man stirred or spoke. Tliey 
were evidently waiting for some sign or password 
from him ; but what he knew not, for now that his 
mind was in a state of active consciousness he was 
dependent entirely upon himself. 

The silence was becoming embarrassing and John, 
who could only hope to recognize his two undesirable 
acquaintances by their voices, was vaguely wonder- 
ing what he should do next, when one of them at 
length spoke, in a tone which he recognized as Bill 
Wringley’s. 

“ You must pardon Sir Walter, my masters,” he 
said, ‘‘ if lie should be somewhat backward in the ful- 
filment of the wonted forms and ceremonies. He 
has been ill and his memory is disordered. In good 
sooth, he had e’en forgotten me and Dick here — had 
lie not, mate ? ” 

So he said,” replied a man on his right, whom 
John perceived to be his other persecutor. 

They all rose — there were fourteen of them in all 
— and each man raised his glass. 

“ C,” said Bill, solemnly. 

“ R,” continued Dick, in the same tones. 

“ I,” added the man next to him, and so they went 
on, each in his turn mentioning a letter, until the 
man on Bill’s left concluded with N,” and John, 
who had wonder ingly followed this singular perform- 
ance, made out the two words : Cricnell Common 


His Fatal Success. 


167 


“ Great heavens ! ” he exclaimed to himself. Are 
all these scoundrels participators in Sir Walter’s 
secret ? ” 

You perceive,” said Bill, after a pause which he 
himself was clearly expected to fill up, he has for- 
gotten.” 

Yes,” said the other thirteen in one breath, ‘‘ he 
has forgotten, but we remember.” 

Whereupon each man emptied his mug, and sitting 
down, commenced conversing with his neighbor as if 
an important duty had been satisfactorily accom- 
plished. 

John, as was obviously expected of him, took a seat 
between Bill and Dick, and by way of making the best 
of the situation, suggested that the company should 
drink with him, a proposal which was greeted with 
acclamations. 

The liquor produced was the coarsest fiery spirit, 
which nearly choked him when he tried to swallow it, 
though the rest seemed to relish it exceedingly. 

Have you brought the money ? ” said Bill, pres- 
ently, in a low voice. 

“ No,” replied John, in the same tone. 

‘‘That’s bad,” said Dick. 

“Are you resolved, then ?” asked Bill. 

“ Resolved? ” 

“ Ready for that affair we conferred upon ? ” 

John had determined, on considering the matter 
beforehand, to agree cheerfully to any proposal they 
might make, only endeavoring to gain as much time 
as possible by deferring it as long as he could. 

“ How soon?” he said. 


168 


His Fatal Success. 


Let me consider,” said Bill. It is no use doing 
things in haste. Hurry leads to the gallows, as the 
saying goes. This ’ere is a weighty venture and needs 
discreet handling. I do not think as it can be ar- 
ranged under a week.” 

“Ten days were better,” said Dick, and John 
could have hugged him, so strongly did hope spring 
up within him at the lengthened respite. 

“ So be it,” said Bill. “ This is the seventeenth. 
The twenty-seventh then. Be here at nine without 
fail.” 

“Do all these — gentlemen,” John went on, after a 
pause, in which he substituted that misused word for 
“scoundrels,” an appellation which was so well-de- 
served that it rose unconsciously to his lips. “ Do 
all these gentlemen go with us ? ” 

“No, no,” said Bill hastily. “Not a word to them. 
This is a little private job between me and you, and 
Dick here.” 

“All right,” said John. “The twenty-seventh.” 

“ No tricks upon travellers, mark you,” said Dick, 
with a scowl. “No shirking or blabbing.” 

“Why, how you talk, man,” said John, with much 
apparent candor. “How can I help myself? You 
and our — friends here know too much for that. 
Don’t be afraid, I shall be here.” 

He resolved inwardly, however, that by that time 
he would take care to be far enough away. 

“ And now,” he said to Bill, “ that that little mat- 
ter is comfortably disposed of, if it is not disagree- 
able to you and these other — gentlemen ” — tlie word 


His Fatal Success. 


169 


would stick in his throat — “ I should much like to 
go.” 

Go ! ” exclaimed Bill in astonishment. ‘‘ Already ! 
Rest where you are and let us have a goodly carouse. 
Sir Walter,” he went on, raising his voice, ‘‘is anx- 
ious to depart, without a song or anything. Surely 
that may not be.” 

This announcement was met by a clamor of re- 
monstrance from the rest, to whom Sir Walter had 
undoubtedly been a cherished and sympathetic boon 
companion. 

“ Gentlemen,” said John, rising when the uproar 
had died away, “ I regret extremely, no one more so, 
the necessity that compels me to leave you so early. 
You will, I think, do me justice by owning that I do 
not, as a rule, shirk my liquor,” 

The unanimous approval and assent that this re- 
mark evoked proved, to John that this shot had hit 
the mark. 

“But, gentlemen,” he continued, “I have, as you 
probably know, been very ill and am still far from 
restored to health. Under these circumstances I 
crave your indulgence and permission to depart.” 

Comrades all,” said Bill, rising as John concluded, 
“considering as Sir Walter’s life is of the highest im- 
portance and, I may say, value to us one and all, I 
beg your consent.” 

This speech, which seemed to be considered botli 
sensible and humorous, silenced all further objection, 
and John, after having solemnly shaken hands with 
each man present, was conducted down the staircase 
and across tlie courtyard to the outer door. 


170 


His Fatal Success, 


He first proceeded to carefully wasli liis right 
liand, which had, he felt, been polluted by the 
touch of the miscreants, in a brook that bab- 
bled merrily by the roadside. After which he re- 
sumed his homeward way with much internal exul- 
tation. 

Ten days ! ” he exclaimed aloud, as he rapidly 
traversed the solitaiy road. ‘‘It is a lifetime. By 
then Rose and I shall be far beyond the reach of these 
men and their rascally companions.” 

All the discomforts he had endured, all the dangers 
that surrounded him seemed illumined by the warm 
glow of joy and hope within him. The onlj^ dark 
spot was the thought of Rose’s resentment at his 
failure to keep their last appointment ^ but even that 
was swallowed up in his general bliss. 

“ The longest lane has a turning,” he cried, joy- 
fully. 

Had he been able to foresee the future lie might 
have quoted with more appropriateness that other 
proverb which tells too sanguine mortals that “there 
is many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.” 


CHAPTER XTII. 

A LENGTHENED TETHER. 

John’s exultation at his prospective release from 
his galling bondage was not permitted to last long. 
Rose, who had previously been an almost daily visitor 


His Fatal Success. 


171 


to their place of meeting, had suddenly taken to ab- 
senting herself, and remained completely inaccessible. 

Every evening found John watching in the ruined 
cottage, but Rose still kept away. That she should 
have been deeply offended by his failure to keep the 
previous appointment was natural, but to so persist 
in her indignation Avas unreasonable, and likely, if 
continued, to lead to the most disastrous conse- 
quences. Day after day slipped away, and the fate- 
ful twenty-seventh rapidly approached, and still no 
sign of lier came to relieve his anxiety. In vain he 
wandered all day long through the town, in vain he 
sought a chance encounter in the neighborhood of 
lier cottage, he Avas not reAvarded Avith even the most 
casual glimpse of her. 

His uneasiness increased as time went on. What 
Avas he to do ? This contingency Avas altogether un- 
forseen, and he Avas at a loss how to act. To remain 
in WickAVorth after the tAventy-sixth Avas impos- 
sible, and yet to depart Avithout again seeing Rose 
Avas more than he could endure. He determined at 
length to Avait patiently until that night arrived ; if 
then Rose still remained obdurate, he Avould, regard- 
less of all risks, seek her in her OAvn home, Avliere, if 
he could see her, he had no doubt that he Avould be 
able easily to soothe her injured feelings, and persuade 
her to flight. 

On the morning which he had resolved should be 
liis last in Wickworth, he Avas swiftly and secretly 
completing his preparations for departure Avhen 
Travers, who appeared to have no suspicions, entered 
his room, and informed him with a malicious grin, 


172 


His Fatal Success, 


that two gentlemen wished to see him. He refused 
to explain who they were, but insisted upon his at 
once accompanying him to the chamber in which 
they were awaiting him. 

On entering, closely followed by Travers, who 
seemed to anticipate an attempt at escape on his part, 
he saw Mr. Merrill in a state of considerable pertur- 
bation, and a man of about thirty who was unknown 
to him. 

John advanced with outstretched hand, but the older 
gentleman retired hastily behind the younger man, 
who drew himself up, and folding his arms, scowled 
so ferociously that John stopped in amazement. 

So, sirrah ! ’’ said the stranger, after a pause, in 
a tone of the deepest scorn. ‘‘ You still have confi- 
dence enough to face an injured father.” 

John could make nothing of this unexpected out- 
burst. Who was this man? What injury had he nt 
any time done to child or children of his, who, jmlg- 
ing by their parent’s age, could be little more than 
infants ? 

“Are you stricken dumb, fellow?” asked the 
other, as John did not speak. “Or hath the con- 
sciousnes of your villainy clogged your too fluent 
tongue ? ” 

“ Really,” stammered John. “You have the ad- 
vantage of me. I am ignorant of how I can have 
wronged you or your children. I don’t remember 
ever seeing you before.” 

“ Bah ! ” cried the man. “ This is trifling.” 

“ There, William,” murmured Mr. Merrill, “ I 
forewarned you how it would be.” 


His Fatal Success. 


173 


“ Peace, father. Leave it to me,’' was the stern 
answer. 

Father ! ” said John to himself, a light breaking 
in upon his perplexity. Mr. Merrill was the injured 
parent, and the other was Mary’s brother. 

“How long, Sir Walter,” continued the enraged 
young man. “ How long is this shilly-shally to en- 
dure ? ” 

“Has not Miss Merrill told you — ? ” began John, 
but he stopped short. To recount before Travers 
the incidents of his last interview with the lady in 
question, would be to betray all, and frustrate his 
contemplated flight. 

“ There is no need of that. Sir Walter,” said his 
opponent. “ My father is neither deaf nor blind. 
He informs me that since your recovery you have 
constantly and markedly neglected my sister. My 
sister, sir, to whom you are betrothed. I am here to 
demand an explanation, or — ” and he tapped the 
hilt of his sword significantly. 

John gazed round the room in bewilderment. 
Travers, with folded avms, and a smile of keen en- 
joyment on his evil face, leaned against the door, but 
offered no assistance. The young man stood await- 
ing his reply with an air of firm resolution, while 
Mr. Merrill was visibly ill at ease. 

“What do you want of me ?” asked John, 

“ A plain and explicit answer to a simple question. 
Do you intend to espouse my sister Mary, or no ? ” 

John was beginning to lose his temper, and it was 
with equal confidence that he answered, “ No.” 
The effect was instantaneous. The young man’s 


174 


His Fatal Success, 


hand leaped to his sword ; the elder seized him, as if 
to prevent violence, while Travers, who had locked 
the door, glided between them, hissing into John’s 
ear as he passed him : Fool ! ” 

“ Patience a moment’s space,” he went on aloud. 

Reason before bloodshed. What, my dear Walter, 
can be your objection ? ” 

To state his distaste for the lady in the very [)res- 
ence of these men was not to be thought of, so he 
could only repeat liis refusal to complete his en- 
gagement. 

“Very well, sir,” cried the brother, furiously, 
drawing his sword. “ Defend yourself.” 

John realized that he was in a particularly danger- 
ous situation. He had no love of fighting, had never 
even practised with the sword he wore, and was 
equally unwilling, either to kill this man, or, as was 
more likely, to be killed by him, and yet it was impos- 
sible to refuse the challenge. 

“ You know, sir,” he cried, seeking for some loop- 
hole of escape. “You know that I cannot fight 
you.” 

“ The taunt was worthy of you. There, there,” 
he cried, flinging at John’s feet an apparently heavy 
purse ; “There is the paltry sum I owe you. Now, 
do you still refuse ? ” 

“ Yes,” shrieked John in terror, “ I do refuse.” 

“ That you are a scoundrel. Sir Walter Carling- 
foi-d, I liave long suspected,” said tlie other in a low 
tone of suppressed rage. “ It is left for me to-day to 
brand you as a coward as well.” 

For a moment the wild idea occurred to Jolin to 


His Fatal Success, 


175 


let this man kill liim, and so put an end to all his 
misery, but the thouglit of Rose routed it at once. 
As long as her liappiness was in question, his life 
was valuable, and he would not risk it in a combat 
with this man, who was probably a master of his 
weapon. But how could he avoid it? To his sur- 
prise, Travers, wlio had been gloating fiendishly over 
his terror and distress, now came to his assistance. 

“Softly, softly, sir,” he said. “ You do iny poor, 
dear Walter wrong. My nephew is no coward. 
But you must reflect, he has been ill, and is still very 
weak. When he is quite recovered he will doubtless 

grant you the satisfaction you demand, unless 

unless we can persuade him to reconsider his decis- 
ion. Come, Walter, confess that you spoke hastily, 
and that you will, as in all honor bound, fulfil your 
contract with the lady.” 

‘‘If T do ” cried John. 

“ Silence, fool ! ” exclaimed Travers, almost 
springing upon him, so quickly was he by his side. 
“ Do as I bid you ; it is your only chance.” 

John hesitated for a moment only. After all, 
what did his consent matter now, whatever hap- 
pened, whether he succeeded in seeing Rose or not, 
he must leave the place that night ? He dared not 
risk staying until the evening when he was pledged 
to meet the ruffians, and once fairly quit of Wick- 
worth, his promise did not matter. He would be for- 
ever free of this fiery brother and his vengeance. 

“ Yes,” he said, as if convinced by Travers’ argn- 
ments, “you are right, T spoke hastily, and without 
thinking'; I consent.” 


176 


Mis Fatal Success. 


The young man sheathed his sword with a satisfied 
air, while Mr. Merrill sliook John by the hand with 
unfeigned delight. He was anxious to carry him off 
at once to make his peace with Mary, but John 
pleaded indisposition, promising to present himself 
without fail on the morrow. 

To-morrow,” lie exclaimed, as Travers left the 
room with his visitors, “ to-morrow I shall be free of 
them all.” 

John Imd some scruples about retaining the purse, 
which the young man, however, refused to take back. 
He owed Sir Walter the money, he declared, and he 
had better keep it now that he had got it. It con- 
tained a number of large gold pieces, of the value of 
which he was ignorant, though it was evidently great. 
It certainly was a most welcome supply, as he had 
previously been absolutely penniless, and he consoled 
himself by the reflection that he had at all events a 
better right to it than anybody else. 

An liour after sunset found John approaching, for 
the last time, the cottage where he had passed so 
many pleasant liours. He was resolute not to leave 
Avithout one more attempt to persuade Rose to ac- 
company him. It could not be liard, he thought, to 
convince her that his previous neglect was due to no 
fault of his own, if he could only see her ; and he de- 
termined, if she failed to appear that niglit, to go 
boldly to her cottage, and by hook or crook, obtain 
an interAnew Avith her. 

Great Avas his joy when, on reaching the doorway, 
he saAV in the dark room a darker figure. 

Rose, my dearest ! ” he cried rapturously, and 


Sis Fatal Success, 


177 


was about to rush into her arms, when the figure 
sprang upon him, and desperately endeavored to hurl 
him to the ground. He staggered back under the 
surprise and shock, and wrenching himself free from 
his unknown assailant, found himself face to face 
with a young man whose face was pale, and con- 
vulsed with fury. 

Where is she? ” he said in a hoarse voice, ‘‘ where 
is she, villain ? Give her back to me.” 

“ Slie! who? what do you mean?” cried John in 
affright. 

Who ? who ? ” gasped the other, “ you know, 
you black-hearted scoundrel ! you know. My sister, 
my little Rose. Where is she ? ” 

“ Good God, man! where? I don’t know. What 
do you mean ? ” 

‘‘ She is gone. Fled from her home, and you know 
where. Give her back, give her back to me.” 

His voice broke as he spoke, and he gave way to a 
passionate, heart-breaking outburst of grief. 

It was long before John succeeded in convincing 
him that he was in reality guiltless, and ignorant of 
her whereabouts, and in persuading liim to relate the 
circumstances of her disappearance. 

Ten days before. Rose had gone out, as was fre- 
quently her custom, for a walk in tlie cool evening 
air. As she did not return at the usual liour, her 
brother had stepped into the road to look for her, 
when he heard, at some distance, a scream and a cry 
for help, followed by the clatter of a horse’s hoofs 
travelling at great speed, and gradually dying away 
in the distance. Disturbed and alarmed he had 
12 


178 


His Fatal Success. 


watched and waited, but hour after hour passed and 
Rose did not return. Since that he had neither seen 
nor heard anything of hero Wild with grief, he had 
searched and inquired far and wide in vain. He had 
in his wanderings observed Sir Walter’s frequent vis- 
its to the cottage, and had been led to suspect that 
he might know something of the matter. He had in 
consequence hidden himself there, and John’s cry of 
‘‘Rose” had convinced him that his suspicions were 
correct. 

“ Listen,” said John, when he had fini'shed, “ that 
I love your sister is true. That 1 have been in the 
habit of meeting her here, I confess ; but I swear be- 
fore Heaven I know no more than you who is at the 
bottom of this damnable villainy.” 

“ So help you God, Sir Walter — ” said the man 
earnestly—^ is this thing that you tell me true ? ” 

“ So help me God,” said John, “ it is. Moreover. 
I swear that I will set out at once, and never to rest 
or stay until I have found out the villain, and taken 
full revenge upon him.” 

The man still seemed doubtful; though John 
spoke in all honest earnestness. Sir Walter’s reputa- 
tion was clearly not unknown to him. 

“ In good sooth,” he muttered, “ I know not 
whether to credit you, or not.” 

“ If you doubt me — ” said John, “ convince your- 
self. Come with me. Together we will wander 
through the world until we find her.” 

“ I cannot,” said the other in broken accents, “ I 
have an aged mother, whom I may not leave. I will 
believe,” he continued, after an irresolute pause, 


His Fatal Success. 


179 


“ and may all ill light upon your head if you have be^ 
trayed me.” 

‘‘Amen ! ” said John. 

“ I do believe,” cried the man, warmly pressing his 
hand, “ and when you have found her, bring her back. 
Sir Walter, stained or stainless bring her back to her 
broken-hearted mother.” 

He stopped, his voice choked with grief ; and once 
more wringing John’s hand, quitted him without an- 
other word. 

Left to himself, John was sorely puzzled to dis- 
cover the meaning of this strange event. For a long 
time, indeed, lie was too overcome by sorrow to re- 
flect seriously on the matter, but when he had gained 
partial relief by swearing bitter vengeance on its 
author, he found himself able to devote his thoughts 
to its consideration. One thing was certain, it was 
the doing either of Travers or of Mary. It was 
doubtful which. He was anxious to return, confront 
Travers, and accuse him of the wrong, but he con- 
cluded that it would be too dangerous, and that hav- 
ing escaped from his control, it would be better to 
remain out of his clutches. 

With a burdened heart he rose at last, and started 
on his weary search. As he had no clue to Rose’s 
situation, it mattered not in which direction he trav- 
elled, and as the road he first entered upon led 
south, he followed that. 

In time he found himself on the Common whoso 
name was now so hateful in his ears. 

Before advancing into the valley which stretched be- 
fore him, he turned to gaze once more upon the town 


180 


His Fatal Success, 


which he was now leaving, and wliicli he sincerely 
hoped he should never see again. The moon had risen 
and threw its dim and watery rays over the landscape 
at his feet. It was vague and misty, illumined only 
here and there by the windings of the river. Darkly 
lowering over the plain rose the hill on which the 
town stood, its gloom relieved in places by the late 
burning taper of some midnight watcher. 

As he looked, the night on which he had made his 
futile experiment on the same spot returned upon 
his mind with marvellous clearness, and striding down 
the hill that sloped before him, he cursed the folly 
that had brought him to this pass. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AT SEA. 

In spite of the numberless discomforts which 
occurred to John daily; in spite of the rough enter- 
tainment afforded by even the best country taverns, 
the ill-cooked food, and unsavory drink, the absence 
of all the small luxuries which in his old life had 
appeared to him necessities ; in spite of the badness 
of the roads, which indeed were frequently little 
more than faintly marked tracks, where the eye 
needed to be ever on the alert to prevent the foot 
from straying from the path ; in spite of the want of ac- 
commodation for public travel which necessitated his 


Rls Fatal Saccesso 


181 


journeying either on horseback or on foot, of which 
alternatives he chose the latter ; in spite of these, and 
many other constant annoyances, which passed un- 
noticed by those around him because they had never 
known a better state of things ; in spite of all, John 
would at this time have been almost happy, had it 
not been for the perpetually recurring thought of 
Rose and her fate. 

Starting in the morning before the dew was dry, 
only too glad to breathe the cool fresh air after tlie 
stifling atmosphere of the dirty ill-ventilated inn 
chamber, which he was lucky if he was able to 
occupy alone ; resting in some retired woodland nook, 
by murmuring streamside, during the middle heat of 
the day ; setting forth once more when the shadows 
began to stretch their lengthened fingers towards the 
east; and arriving in the dim afterglow, to seek a 
welcome rest and supper in the roadside inn, or 
cottage ; day after day he wandered, following what 
road he would, for in his undirected search all were 
alike to him, keeping generally only a southward 
course ; escaped from the surveillance of the odious 
Travers, free to go where and do what he listed, he 
should have been happy. But Rose’s doubtful fate 
was the one thought which blackened all the bright- 
ness of the scene. The bright summer sun and 
cloudless blue sky, the shifting lights and shadows of 
the woodlands, the glowing fires of sunset, and the 
silver gray of dawn, the sparkling waters and sweet- 
smelling flowers, all alike were shadowed by this 
haunting anxiety. 

All trace of her was lost. He had not dared to 


182 


His Fatal Success, 


linger near Wickwortli, to make inquiries in the 
neighborhood in which lay his only chance of gaining 
some first clue, of finding the first footstep on the 
track; and now tliat he was able without fear to 
question whom he would, it was too late. Ignorant 
as he was even of the most general direction of the 
course taken by her abductor, nothing but the most 
improbable chance could bring him across any trace 
of her. He was stung to madness by the thought 
that, as sunset after sunset found him still further to 
the south, she was possibly being carried further and 
further from him in the opposite direction. 

He contemplated at one time making a complete 
circuit of Wickwortli at a distance of about thirty 
miles, but the likelihood of any reward was not 
sufficient to compensate for the risk of venturing to 
remain even at that distance from the place, in whicli 
iie had probably by then been denounced, far and 
wide, as a murderer. Chance alone, he knew, could 
aid him, and trusting to that he pursued his south- 
ward journey. 

The country, though some of it had been well- 
known to him before his catastrophe, was strangely 
altered. Here and there he would recognize in some 
flaunting building new from the mason’s hands, a 
liouse that he had known before, moss grown, ivy- 
clad, and gray with age ; but for the most part all was 
strange. 

In one place, where he had been accustomed to 
gaze from the hill top over a broad plain rich with 
the golden corn or waving grass, a dismal swamp met 
his astonished eye. The river, which had rolled 


His Fatal Success. 


183 


secure between its banks, wandered unfettered 
through the rustling reeds, or spread itself lazily in 
vast stagnant pools, where the swimming water-fowl 
cut little lanes through the green mantle that covered 
the steaming surface. All day long he toiled through 
the rank herbage that rose high above his head, 
sticking in the mire, turning aside now to avoid a 
stretch of bubbling black mud, now wandering lost 
in the reeds whence the noisy wild-fowl flew in clouds 
as he approached, almost poisoned by the foul ex- 
halations of the treacherous ooze, it was not until the 
sun had sunk behind the hills on his right that he 
emerged, thankful for his numerous escapes from a 
horrible death, on the southern border of the pestif- 
erous marsh. 

A thick curtain of ghostly mist hung heavily over 
the place, but when he had mounted the hill in front 
of him to escape the death-bearing miasma, he flung 
himself among the lieather still warm from the sun, 
too worn out to seek securer shelter, and slept until 
the sun was high next day. 

So day after day, and week after week, he pene- 
trated further and further to the south. 

At last, on the evening of July the first, when the 
sun was already low, he found himself standing on 
the edge of a heathy plateau, across which he had 
been travelling for three days past. From his feet, 
to right and left as far as he could see, the rolling 
hill, broken by many a combe, curved steeply down. 
At its base lay a narrow strip of cultivated ground, 
beyond tluit a border of yellow sand, and then a broad 
stretch of blue sea. His journey for the present 


184 


His Fatal Success, 


was at an end, he could go on further south on foot. 

Below him, a little to the right, a river, after wash- 
ing the base of the eminence on which he stood, 
debouched into the sea. At its mouth stood a small 
town, where from either bank a rough stone pier 
running out some hundred yards formed, as they 
curved towards each other, a fairly secure harbor. 

This town, John determined, should be liis resting 
place for the night; the next day he would settle 
what liis further course should be. 

It is pitiful to remark with what undoubting con- 
fidence man plans and schemes for the morrow, aye, 
and many morrows after that, and how often Fate, 
with one touch of her mighty finger, oversets his 
frail card palaces. Little did John think that on the 
morrow, and for many a long day after, his course 
was to be settled without his concurrence. 

The inn he found bore the sign of The Three 
Sailors,” and seemed to him fairly comfortable, as he 
understood comfort by then. He had long since 
ceased to expect the cosy bar parlor, with its bright 
glasses and rows of shining pewter vessels, the tidy 
sitting-room with its polished furniture and clean 
white tablecloth, so it was without any shock that 
he entered the public room, a long, low, badly lighted 
apartment, filled with rough men whose pervading 
flavor of fish and tar betrayed their occupation. 

As he stood for a moment in the doorway, a man 
at the further end of the room got up hastily and left 
by anotlier door ; but, though even in the darkness 
there seemed something familiar to John about the 
figure, he thought no more of it, and calling for a 


His Fatal Success, 


185 


mug of ale lie sat himself down by the side of a some* 
what ill-favored, sailor-like man, who made grudging 
room for him. 

One of the expedition, master ? ’’ queried he 
gruffly. 

No,’’ said John. ‘‘ What expedition do you 
mean?” 

‘‘Nay, nay,” answered the man hastily. “I spake 
but idly. I know of no expedition. A stranger in 
these parts, mayhap ? ” 

“ Yes.” John said he was but newly arrived. 

“ Ah ! ” said the man. “ And what may one call 
thee ? ” 

“ My name is John Stuart,” he replied, for since 
his escape he had left off his borrowed title. 

“What tidings upon the London road? ” was the 
next question. 

John briefly answered that he knew of none. He 
did not relish the man’s looks, or the tone and in- 
quiring nature of his conversation, and felt consider- 
ably relieved when he rose, apparently in answer to 
a low whistle from outside, and left him with a surly 
“ good-night.” 

Supper came at length, and so hungry was he that 
he ate with zest what a few short months before 
would have filled him with loathing. At intervals, 
along the unwashed clothless tables, were placed 
huge wooden bowls in which lumps of meat and 
bread floated in a greasy soup, and from which each 
man helped himself to what he liked, as best he 
might. 

Coarse oil lamps threw an uncertain light upon 


186 


His Fatal Success. 


the scene, and as soon as he had satisfied the first crav- 
ings of his appetite, John was glad to escape from 
the mingled odors of the room. Informing the host 
that he would be back in less than an hour, and re- 
questing him to keep a bed for him, he turned his 
back upon the inn door, which, though he knew it 
not, he was never again to enter. 

He made his way to one of the jetties he had seen 
from the hill, and remained there for some time, enjoy- 
ing the fresh sea-breeze, and lazily watching the ship- 
ping of the harbor. This consisted for the most part of 
small fishing boats ; but anchored in tlie centre was a 
larger vessel, on board of which all seemed hurry and 
confusion. Tlie murmur of many voices and hoarse 
orders, softened by distance, fell pleasantly upon the 
ear, while boats were constantly gliding to and fro, 
between the ship and the quays. It was evident that 
her departure was imminent. 

A man wrapped in a heavy boat-cloak, though the 
night was warm, was lounging at the pier-head, and 
to him John addressed himself: 

‘‘ What ship is that? ” 

“ The White Lily,” answered the man, in a low 
muffled voice. 

‘‘ Whither bound ? ” 

“ Faith, I know not,” said the stranger, moving off 
as if to avoid further parley. 

What were there about his figure, concealed as it 
was, his scarce heard voice, and his gait that were 
vaguely familiar? The thought passed through his 
mind and was forgotten, as he turned once more to 
examine the ship. 


His Fatal Success, 


187 


He was not altogether unacquainted with craft, 
but this was such an one as he had never seen 
before. She was very much higher fore and aft than 
in the waist, so that she appeared to have, as it were, 
a house built on the maindeck at either end. That 
in the bows was dark and lowering, and was appar» 
ently pierced for guns ; the one at the stern was 
brilliantly lighted, rays coming from within from a 
double tier of windows which ran one above the other 
along both sides, and judging from the illumination 
on the surrounding boats, across the stern. She had 
two masts, and at the top of the mainmast was a 
crow’s-nest to contain armed men. She was not by 
any means a large ship, but was evidently designed 
for fighting if occasion should require it. 

The expedition he had heard mentioned occurred 
to John, and as he slowly retraced liis steps along 
the pier, he wondered wliat could be the object of a 
ship fitting out so hastily in such a small port. 

Across the shore end of the pier was a gateway, 
under which John, as he approached, perceived the 
figure of a man. To his surprise the man, as he was 
about to enter, barred the way with a pike presented 
at his breast, crying : 

‘‘ Who goes there ? ” 

‘‘ Halloa ! ” he cried in astonishment. ‘‘ What the 
deuce is the meaning of this? ” 

The password,” exclaimed his obstructor. The 
password.” 

‘‘Password ! ” said John. “ Surely there’s no need 
of that. I came onto the pier without one, so I should 
think I miglit go off.” 


188 


His Fatal Success, 


The password, and speedily,” reiterated the other. 

‘‘ Oh ! this is perfectly ridiculous,” said John, laugh- 
ing in spite of his vexation — “ Stand aside and let 
me pass.” 

Stand hack,” said the man, enforcing his com- 
mand by slightly advancing his weapon. 

John was in doubt what to do when he heard a 
step behind him, and remembering the stranger he 
had encountered at the pierhead, was about to turn 
and ask for his assistance when he felt himself sud- 
denly enveloped in the folds of a cloak thrown over 
him from behind, and grasped tightly in a pair of 
strong arms, against whose grip he struggled vainly. 
Ilis efforts were futile ; his unknown assailant had 
evidently assistance at hand, and he was quickly and 
deftly bound with a rope still wrapped securely in 
the cloak. He was then lifted from the ground and 
carried, as it seemed to him, down some steps, but 
the thick garment almost stifled him, and in a few 
moments he fainted away. 

When he recovered he was stretched on the floor 
of a small wooden closet, faintly illumined by the 
rays of a lamp outside, wliicli found scant admittance 
through an aperture above the door. He was un- 
bound, but the door was locked, and ihere seemed to 
be no other opening. He was parched with thirst, 
and finding by his side a loaf of coarse bread and a 
flagon of ale, he greedily drained it to the dregs, with- 
out thinking what he did. He had no idea what 
hour it was, but all was silent, and though lie shouted 
and liammered on the door, he received no answer. 

Presently a growing dizziness and languor attacked 


His Fatal Success^ 


189 


him, and he began to suspect, as he should have done 
sooner, that the liquor he had swallowed had been 
drugged. He strove for a long time against the feel- 
ing of sleepiness, but it was hopeless, and before long 
he fell into a profound dreamless slumber. 

When he awoke, all question as to his situation 
was at an end. 

He was unmistakably on board ship, and that ship 
was engaged at tlie moment in tussling with a pretty 
lively sea. He was lying in the berth of a cabin, 
which had a window looking out to the stern of the 
vessel, and. as he felt too weak and ill to move, he 
contented himself with remaining where he was, 
watching the toppling waves that followed in the wake. 
As the stern sank down, a great green billow angrily 
tipped with foam would climb up, up, up, higher and 
higher, rusliing down upon the struggling ship, as if 
about to overwhelm it. Then, just as it seemed upon 
the point of dashing through the window opposite 
John, it seemed to slip out of sight, and the stern was 
swung high into the air, only to sink once more into 
the following trough, giving him a perfectly appalling 
sensation of dizzy sickness. He had always been a 
first-rate sailor, but it was clear that Sir Walter’s an- 
atomy adapted itself but ill to the motion of the 
waves, and before long John was racked with all the 
hideous torments of sea-sickness. 

The woodwork around him creaked and groaned 
as the good ship battled bravely with the surges ; 
sounds of trampling feet, shouts, and the rattle of 
chains fell unheeded on his ear. He neither knew 
jior cared to think how he had come there at all ; 


100 


His Fatal Successo 


what ship he was on, and whitlier bound, were mat- 
ters of the utmost indifferenceo He only wished for 
death to relieve his sufferings. At times he fell into 
a troubled and uneasy doze, but only to awake again 
to renewed misery. 

Occasionally, a man came to him and gave him hot 
ale and bread, of which he partook sparingly, with- 
out gratitude or wonder. He did not even feel sur- 
prise at the discovery that the man who attended 
him was the one who had addressed him in the public 
room of ‘‘ The Three Sailors.” He was in no mood 
for speculation, and if he had suddenly found himself 
in his old home, among his old friends at Wick worth, 
it would have occasioned him no astonishment. 

For ten days he suffered these afflictions, but on 
the morning of the eleventh, when he awoke, he felt 
more like himself ; the sea had gone down and the 
vessel rode easily over the long swelling rollers. He 
managed to rise from his couch, and when, after hav- 
ing given him his breakfast, wliich he devoured raven- 
ously, his attendant suggested that the captain 
would like to see him if he felt equal to the exertion, 
he acquiesced at once. 

The door of his cabin gave onto a passage which 
ran lengthwise down tlie centre of the ship, opening 
into the lower part which formed her waist, but 
instead of pursuing this, his guide opened a door on 
the opposite side of the passage, and motioned John 
to enter, shutting the door behind him when he had 
done so. 

A man, whom he concluded to be the captain, was 
sitting at a table suspended from the ceiling, with 


His Fatal Success, 


191 


his back to the entrance, and he was so placed as to 
be between John and the window. 

After waiting for some time, as the man neither 
moved nor spoke, and seemed quite unconscious of 
his presence, John was about to advance and address 
him, when he suddenly raised his head from the 
writing in which he had appeared to be absorbed, 
and turned round. 

As his eyes fell upon him, John staggered back as 
though he had been shot, for he saw before him the 
evil smile and yellow countenance of Kichard Travers. 


CHAPTER XV. 

GENTLEMEN-DiSCOVERERS. 

Welcome, my dear Walter, welcome to the White 
Lily ! ” cried Travers, rising to salute John, with well 
feigned astonishment. ‘‘ An this be not a pleasant 
surprise, I am no true man.” 

“Nonsense,” said John, sternly, ignoring his prof- 
fered hand. “I’ve had enough of your blarney. 
What is the meaning of this ? Why am I here ? ” 

“ Come you not to join our expedition? ” 

“ Expedition ! What expedition ? You know that 
I don’t. I was dragged here by force, and demand to 
be instantly released.” 

“ Released ! I should be sorely put to it to com- 
pass that, sith land is far enough away by now. Here 
you are and here I’ll warrant you must fain rest and 
make the best of it.” 


192 


His Fatal Success. 


But how did I coine here? ” said John, who was 
unable to find any answer to Travers’ reasoning. 

‘‘Nay,” he answered, “Avhat matter, since you are 
here ? I assured you, months agone, that you could 
not escape me. You would not credit me then, per- 
chance you are more docile now. A good friend of 
mine — aye, and of yours, too — espied you in the 
‘ Three Sailors ’ tavern, and I made shift to have you 
conveyed on board, thinking it a shame that my 
nephew should not share profits in our enterprise.” 

“What is this enterprise, anyhow?” said Jolin, 
impatiently. 

“ A fair and doughty one, as you shall soon see for 
yourself, and one that bids fair to make all our for- 
tunes.” 

At this moment a sailor entered the cabin, and ad- 
dressing Travers, said: 

“ A sail, master on the larboard bow.” 

“ How far?” 

“Somewhat better than two miles. 

“ Lay your course for her, and I will be on deck 
anon. Will you come, Walter? She is a gallant ship 
and a tall, and well worth the seeing.” 

When they reached the deck John, in spite of his 
disgust at having been kidnapped so shamefully, 
could not resist a feeling of exultation at the pros- 
pect. It was a bright day, with a fresh breeze which 
careened the ship slightly ; while filling lier huge 
mainsail it drove her briskly through the bine water 
which stretched away on all sides to a horizon un- 
broken by any land. 

About two miles off, sailing on a course almost 


Mis Fatal Success. 


193 


parallel with tlieir own, was another rather smaller 
ship, which, judging by ^‘the bone in her mouth,” as 
sailors call the wave under her forefoot, was also 
making good headway. 

After his long confinement, the air and sunshine 
were like wine to John, and he stood by the bulwark 
on the raised stern enjojdng the change. 

On board all was activity ; and when he looked to 
see what was the employment on which the sailors 
were engaged, he was surprised to see that some of 
the men were occupied in piling shot upon the deck, 
others carrying up powder into the poop, from either 
side of which frowned four pieces of ordnance, while 
others again, under the orders of a grizzle-bearded 
old gunner, were carefully cleaning and loading one 
of two long brass swivels which were stationed on 
the roof of the fortress, for the forecastle of the ship 
was practically that. 

Was this a man-of-war on which he was embarked? 
And, if so, with what nation was England at war ? 
And how came it that Travers was in such a position ? 

By this time the two ships had approached within 
easy pistol-shot of each other, the White Lily being 
about half her length ahead. 

“ Hath she displayed her ensign yet ? ” said 
Travers, returning from a general visit of inspection, 
to a man who stood with the signal-halliards in his 
hand and a pile of parti-colored flags on the deck at 
his feet. 

“ No, sir,” was the answer. 

Jonas,” cried Travers, give her a gun.” 

The gunner, who had been waiting impatiently 

13 


194 


His Fatal Success. 


with his piece ready trained and burning linstock in 
hand, after liaving slightly altered the direction of 
his aim, fired. The ball splashed the foam Iiigh in the 
air about ten yards in front of the vessel and, after 
two or three long hops beyond her, disappeared. 

The hint was taken at once, and before the gunner 
had finished cleaning and reloading, the English 
colors floated above the beautiful stranger, who still, 
however, continued her course. 

‘‘What colors shall I show her, sir? The old 
ones ? ” said the signalman, with a grin. 

“ No, no, you fool ; not yet. Show her the Eng- 
lish,'’ was the reply. “Are you ready there, Jonas? ” 

“ Aye, aye, sir,” was the gruff answer. 

“ Then give her another to bring her to, and mark 
you, a trifle closer tliis time. Quartermaster, bear 
off more to starboard and bring her round on the 
other tack.” 

Both orders were promptly obeyed ; the shot passed 
high over the other’s deck, piercing the mainsail, 
while the White Lily, after bearing off a trifle for 
sea-room, was brought about neatly and ran up along- 
side the stranger, whose mainsail had been promptly 
lowered at the second shot. Grapnels were quickly 
thrown on board fore and aft, and the two ships lay 
closely hugged together, the larboard guns of the 
White Lily dominating the stern works of tlie other. 

John was wondering what could be the meaning 
of this strange treatment of a friendly vessel, a feel- 
ing which was apparently shared by all on board of 
her, when a cry of horror burst from her occupants- 
and lie saw them gazing at something overhead with 


His Fatal Success, 


195 


pale, terror-stricken faces. Casting liis eyes upward 
he instantly perceived the cause. Above him-, in- 
stead of the English flag that had floated there, now 
flapped and fluttered in the breeze one of plain black. 

For an instant he saw, with horrible particularity, 
the men pouring over the bulwarks of the White 
Lily and leaping, cutlass in hand, upon the deck of 
the doomed ship, where the crew, too late, made an 
ineffectual rush for their arms, and then with a groan 
he fled from the deck and shut himself into his 
cabin. 

But though he had escaped the hideous sight he 
could not shut out the horrid sounds. Wild yells 
and curses, the shrieks of dying men, the rapid clash 
and rattle of steel against steel, an occasional shot, 
formed a turmoil which his efforts were unable to 
exclude. 

Suddenly the ship heeled over and shuddered from 
stem to stern, as the roar of the guns drowned mo- 
mentarily all other sounds, and an instant after a 
loud shout of triumph burst from an hundrev dillain- 
ous throats. 

The ill-fated ship had struck. 

The tramp of hurrying feet resounded overhead, 
the staggering steps of men bearing heavy Aveights 
stumbled past his door, while John lay stretched upon 
his couch in a state of helpless horror. This last 
stroke of destiny was worse than all. 

Presently he heard the order to cast off given and 
repeated on deck, and he felt that the ship was once 
more moving through the waters. Raising his eyes, 
after a time, he saw, through the stern window, a 


196 


His Fatal Success* 


sight that chilled his blood. About a mile astern 
floated, helplessly, the ship he had seen that morning 
cutting the waves in all her splendoi-o A column of 
lieavy black smoke rolled sullenly up from her high 
into the air and drifted down the wind. Fascinated 
in spite of himself, he remained at the window. The 
flames ran swiftly up the stays, the mast tottered for 
a moment and fell overboard with a crash, a pyramid 
of fire burst from the deck and then, with a dull boom 
that rattled the casement before liim, the ship blew 
up — a flash of brilliant flame — a cloud of gray vapor 
dotted with fiery fragments hurled on high — and she 
was gone forever from human ken. 

The silence on board was almost oppressive after 
the previous tumult; but what was that hollow 
j)lunge that, now and again, broke ominously upon 
his listening ear ? Gazing down into the swirling 

o o o 

waters in the wake of the ship, he saw presently, 
hurled here and there among the eddying foam 
wreathes, the body of a man pierced with a ghastly 
wound, but still struggling and figliting with the 
waves in his death agony ; and staggering from the 
window he looked no more. 

He was not left long to suffer his terrible despair 
undisturbed. 

Tlie door of his cabin opened, and a man entering 
shook him roughly by the shoulder. 

Come, come. Sir Walter,” said a voice ne knew 
too well, tlie fighting is over and there is nought to 
fear.” 

John leaped to his feet, but the evidence of his eyes 
was not needed to assure him that he was not miS" 


His Fatal Success, 197 

taken. Before kim, a sneer of contempt upon his 
ugly face, stood Bill Wringley. 

‘‘You here ! ” he cried. 

“Aye, here am I,” said Bill. “You little thought 
to see me, I’ll be sworn. A pretty trick you played 
on me and Dick, — but I’ll have vengeance yet.” 

“Is — is he here, too?” stammered John, over- 
whelmed by tlie blow upon blow that ill-fate kept 
dealing him. 

“Take care !” cried Bill, fiercely. “You are se- 
cure here, and you know it ; but take care. DoiiT 
try a man too far, for flesh and blood can’t stand it. 
You know he is not here. Poor Dick, he was a 
trusty mate, which is more than I can say of some 
that call themselves his betters.” 

“How should I know where he is ? ” said John. 

“ A murrain on thee ; of course you do not. You 
are the most guileless man on earth. You know not 
that you left me and Dick in the lurch, and that like 
fools we went upon the job alone, and that you, 
having roused the house, we were expected. I barely 
made my escape, and poor Dick, I fear, was trapped.” 

“ I swear I never warned them,” cried John, and 
indeed, in his hasty departure, he had forgotten to do 
so, thougli he had fully intended it. 

“Do you tliink I’m a fool ? No, no. Sir Walter, 
look to yourself ; as long as my eye is on you, you 
are safe. I am too anxious to see you grace an Eng- 
lish gallows to do you harm myself ; but look to it 
you don’t try to give me the slip, for I would find 
you if you took shelter in the nethermost pit. And 
now, come to the captain.” 


198 


His Fatal Success. 


won’t,” said John, sliortlyo 
Won’t! Whew !” said Bill. ‘‘Won’t, to your 
lawful captain. Josiah Knocknaile,” he added, rais- 
ing his voice, “ I have need of you.” 

The man who had attended John during his illness 
slouched into the cabin, and gazed at him, shaking 
his head, with the same contemptuous sneer that 
Bill had worn. 

“ The pity of it, the pity I ” he said, as if address- 
ing himself to the surrounding air. “ To think that 
Sir Walter should prove himself to be a lily-livered 
coward.” 

“Coward?” cried John, furiously, knocking him 
off his feet with a well-planted blow, “ take that, 
then, for a coward's mark ! ” 

The man, white with fury, snatched a knife from 
the sheath at his belt, and, struggling to his feet, 
would have sprung upon John had not Bill inter- 
fered. 

“Put up thy knife, man,” he said, sternly, “and 
help me bring Sir Walter before the captain. Now, 
sir, march.” 

John, seeing resistance was useless, quietly acqui- 
esced, and, followed by his two guards, proceeded to 
Travers’ cabin. 

“ So, sirrah! ” said Travers, coldly, when llie men 
had withdrawn, “it would seem that you are a 
coward.” 

“ I have 3^et to learn,” answered John, indignantly, 
“ that liatred of crime is cowardice.” 

“ Crime ! Bah ! ” said Travers, with a sneer. 

“Yes, sir,” cried John, in rising wrath, “ most 


His Fatal Success, 


199 


daiiiiiable villainy. You have entrapped me and 
made me a prisoner ; but do what you will, you shall 
never make me a pirate.” 

“ Pirate ! What is that ? I am a gentleman dis- 
coverer on the way to adventure on the Spanish 
main.” 

‘‘ And you destroy a defenseless countryman by 
way of practice, I suppose.” 

‘‘ The ship was mine by right of discovery.” 

The discussion was long, and their tempers grew 
hot, and their voices high before the end; but John 
would not retreat one step from his first j)Osition, and 
heaped insult and ignominy upon Travers, in the 
hope of spurring him on to draw upon him, and so 
kill him, or be killed, and make an end. But, though 
Ins face grew pale and his lip trembled with rage, 
Travers liad evidently some purpose which he hoped 
to compel or induce John to serve, and confined him- 
self to words. 

Once for all — ’’cried John, in conclusion — I 
will have no hand in this affair. I am your prisoner, 
but I warn you I shall attempt to escape at the first 
opportunity, and in the meantime I will not draw a 
sword or fire a shot if the safety of the whole shipful 
of cutthroats demanded it.” 

' “ Please yourself,” retorted Travers, “ an you choose 
to be despised and branded as a coward, I care 
naught.” 

Let the man who calls me coward beware lest I 
hear him then. I have already given one of your des- 
peradoes a lesson to that effect, and I will repeat it 
on the first offender, be he high or low.” 


200 


His Fatal Success. 


“ A most spirited gamecock, when the danger is 
past,” snarled Travers, if you fight every man on board 
who calls you coward, you will, methinks, find sulfi- 
cient work for your hands. But let me commend 
you, for your own sake, to keep your opinion of our 
venture to yourself. You may not find all as toler- 
ant as I am, and, though I am most desirous of your 
security, I cannot answer for my followers.” 

I can answer for it,” cried John,” that they will 
meet their just dues some day — on the gallows, and 
you amongst them.” 

With which words he left the cabin, pursued by a 
peal of mocking laughter. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

KEUNITED. 

From that time forward, John was practically a 
prisoner in his own cabin. Not that any attempt was 
made to restrict his personal liberty ; he was free to 
wander whither he would on board, but he had no 
wish to consort with any of the gang of miscreants, 
among whom he recognized most of the men whom 
he had encountered in the dark house at Wick worth; 
and they, on their parts avoided him with unconceal- 
ed contempt. 

True to his project of escaping at the earliest oppor- 
tunity he devoted himself, on all possible occasions, 


His Fatal Success, 


201 


to secretly accumulating such stores and provisions 
as he thought would he useful in case he should be 
able at some future time to secure a boat. These he 
concealed in his cabin as he obtained them. He never 
left it during the day, but at night when the deck 
was deserted, save by the watch, he crept out to en- 
joy, as far as he could enjoy anything in liis miserable 
condition, the fresh air and sea-breeze. 

Througli the wliole month of August, and a large 
part of September, the White Lily sailed on, now here 
now there, but generally, as far as John could make 
out in a westerly direction, her course not unfrequent- 
ly marked temporarily by a column of smoke by day, 
and by night by a flaming beacon, tipj^ing the summits 
of the Atlantic rollers with long lines of ruddy light, 
rising and falling, rising and falling, fading further 
and further away in the distance until it disappeared. 

John’s persistent refusal to take any part in these 
deeds of blood was fiercely resented by the crew, who, 
like most villains, while utterly regardless of the 
opinion of the world at large, writhed under tlie 
knowledge that one actually among them scorned 
and loathed them for their unbridled wickedness. It 
required all Travers’ influence to prevent their re- 
moving by force such an unpleasant reminder of 
what they were from their midst. More than once, 
John’s firm demeanor, and readiness to defend him- 
self in a righteous cause, had alone saved him 
from an attack. 

So matters continued, an explosion continually 
threatening, until the twent5-third of September. 

On the afternoon of that day, John, who had by 


202 HU Fatal Success, 

that time learned to know too Avell all the sounds of 
preparation, gathered that another vessel was about 
to undergo the assault of this remorseless foe. 

The victim on that occasion, proved a most unwill- 
ing one, and her resistance was long and stout, but 
the ruffians, if they had no other merits, were brave 
or rather reckless, and after a running fight, which 
must have endured upwards of two hours, tlie yell 
of triumph, which foreboded a merciless and cruel 
death to so many fellow-creatures, burst once more 
upon his shuddering ear. 

During this period he had been torn with doubt and 
apprehension. He could not but pray for tlie success 
of the other vessel, though he knew that the defeat 
of the White Lily would entail upon him an ignomin- 
ious doom, for his bare assertion that he was with 
them as a captive would never obtain credence in 
the face of the entire gang, who would undoubtedly, 
when their own case was hopeless, swear to a man 
that lie was one of them heart and soul. 

But now the roar of the guns, the shrieks and 
groans of the wounded and dying, were succeeded by 
the hurried bustle which accompanied the removal of 
the valuables from the captured ship. 

John liad relapsed into that state of hopeless mental 
depression which was his usual frame of mind, when 
he was roused from his stupor by the scream of a 
woman from the passage outside his cabin door. He 
flung it upon, and saw tlie scoundrel Knocknaile 
bearing in his arms the dainty figure of a girl, who 
seemed to have just swooned away after her unavail- 
ing struggles. Her head hung limp over his shoulder, 


His Fatal Success, 


203 


and her hair, which had come unbound swept in long 
waves down his back. 

To his unutterable ainazment and horror, he saw 
that it was his long lost Rose! 

He endeavored to rush to her rescue, but another 
man who was following, thrust him violently back, 
saying : 

“ No, no, my master, those who will not play the 
game, cannot expect to draw the stakes.” 

Knocknaile in the meantime had deposited his life- 
less burden in the next cabin, and locking the door 
upon her walked off with the key, both men turning 
to grin maliciously in his face, leaving him in a state 
of overwhelming dismay. 

His astonishment at his beloved' Rose’s presence in 
such an unexpected position was swallowed up by 
his horror at the contemplation of her awful fate. He 
scarcely dared to imagine wliat it would be. 

Rose, unprotected in the hands of those ruthless 
villains, and he so near and yet so powerless to help 
her I No, a thousand times no ; come what might, he 
would find some refuge for her, were it but death in 
each other’s arms. If all else failed the ocean depths 
should be their haven. 

It was too horrible ; when he liad thought that his 
condition could not be rendered more appalling, that 
fate could have nothing worse In store for him, there 
came this cruel blow to drive him further dovui into 
the abyss of despair. 

The planks between liis cabin and the next had 
become slightly warped, as that there was a small 
crack, which he hastened to enlarge with his dagger 


204 


His Fatal Success, 


until it was sufficiently open to enable a whisper to 
penetrate from one room to tlie otlier. It was placed 
fortunately close to the head of the berth on which 
she was lying, and so could not be far removed from 
her ear. 

He had scarcely achieved his purpose, when along 
sigh, followed by a heart-rending moan told him 
that the hapless girl had returned to consciousness, 
and a comprehension of her miserable situation. 

Pressing his lips to tlie opening, he whispered her 
name as loudly as he dared. A moment’s silence 
ensued, during which neither breathed, and then she 
said in a startled whisper : 

What is that ? Who is there ? ” 

‘‘ Hush ! darling,” he whispered eagerl}^ in an 
agony of fear lest she should scream. 

“ For Grod’s sake, make no noise ! It is I, dearest 
Rose, Walter.” 

A groan of agony was her only answer. 

I am like yourself, a prisoner,” he said hastily, 
understanding the thoughts that passed through her 
mind. 

‘‘ A prisoner ! ” she exclaimed, almost joyfully. 

Thank God ! you are not one of ^one of these 

villains? ” 

“ No, no, dearest heart,” he answered.” How could 
you think it ? ” 

Forgive me,” she said.” Forgive me, I knew not 
what to think. Oh, whad will become of me, what will 
become of me ? ” And she burst into a flood of tears. 

‘‘ Listen, dearest,” said Joluio Have you a win- 
dow there?” 


Ris Fatal Success. 


205 


Yes, yes, there is a window.” 

‘‘ Then it must be next to mine. As soon as it is 
dark — not yet — open it softly, and then we can talk 
without fear of being overheard ; and now keep a 
good heart, and trust in Heaven, for one way or 
another I will save you, and we m^y yet be happy. 
Good-bye, darling, till dark.” 

His attempt, in the meantime, to find out whether 
Travers knew who the girl was whom he had captured, 
and what his previous acquaintance with her had 
been was a complete failure. He found him gloating 
over the wealth of the captured ship, and he scarcely 
referred to the girl at all. He merely remarked with 
a sneer that in such cases it was the invariable custom 
to draw lots, and affected to condole with his dear 
Walter on the obstinacy which had prevented his 
having a cliance of winning so fair a prize. He ap- 
peared to be absolutely ignorant of the fact that she 
came from Wickworth, or that Sir Walter had ever 
known anything of her. 

As soon as it was quite dark John tapped softly on 
the panelling, and then gently opened the window of 
his cabin. In a moment he heard tlie next one 
opened, and saw, in the faint light reflected from the 
white foam which the ship left swirling in her wake 
as she drove through the water, a figure which he 
knew was Rose. 

They were too far removed to do more than clasp 
hands, but the touch of Rose’s soft fingers, which he 
had despaired of ever feeling again, seemed to revive 
hope and joy in Jolin’s breast. 

After the first reciprocal assurances of unaltered 


206 


Ills Fatal tS access. 


devotion, John gave her a short account of his suffer- 
ings since they last met, explaining incidentally the 
reason of his failure to keep their last appointment, 
and then begged lier to tell him by what strange 
fatality she came there. 

Her story was very brief and threw no light on the 
real mystery — whose handiwork her abduction had 
been. On her way back from the cottage, on the 
night when John had been unable to go, she had 
been suddenly seized from behind, her cries muffled 
by a cloak thrown over lier head, and in this helpless 
condition lifted into the arms of a man on horseback 
who rode off at full gallop. Being but a weak woman 
it was not long before she fainted away. When she 
came to, she was in a strange chamber wliere she was 
detained for many days. One night she had been 
once more blindfolded and carried on shipboard, being 
ignorant of her conductors or her destination. She 
had been ill, and so lost count of time, but believed 
that they had been at sea some weeks before they 
had that day, after a desj^erate resistance, fallen into 
the hands of the buccaneers. Here, overcome by the 
recollection of tlie dangers that encompassed her, 
which in the joy of again encountering her dear 
Walter she liad for a time forgotten, she began 
wofully to lament her cruel lot. 

John, however, consoled and encouraged her, as- 
suring her that it could not be long before he should 
be able to secure one of the boats, and so enable them 
to make their escape, and promising that, if by any 
ill fortune her danger should grow imminent, he 


Ills Fatal SuceesSo 


207 


would kill her and himself afterwards, sooner than 
any wrong should be done her. 

And now the ill luck that had so long dogged the 
footsteps of these unfortunate lovers seemed for a 
while, though only for a while, to relent, and for a 
few days to take tliem into favor. 

The next morning, shortly after daylight, the look 
out announced that far a stern was a tall ship sailing 
down in pursuit of them, and Travers, concluding 
that his evil deeds had become known at length, re- 
solved that instant flight away to the west was his 
only chance of safety. So all that day, under all the 
sail she could carry, the ship stood bravely on out 
into unknown seas, and all that day, and for five more, 
the pursuer held on after ; every night she was lost 
to sight in the gathering darkness, and every dawn 
showed her still nearer following on the track, and in 
the fear and excitement of the chase. Hose and John 
were alike forgotten. 

At last, when daylight came on the twenty-ninth, 
the horizon all around was unbroken, saving far ahead 
by a dim blue cloud, pale in the distance, which all 
knew to be land, though what land no man on board 
could tell, and for that they made, being by that time 
sorely in need of fresh water. 

It was a fair and pleasant land, with cool fresh 
streams and plenteous store of fruit, and high rocky 
cliffs and towering mountain summits, a most agree- 
able sight to eyes weary of the monotony of the ocean. 

Hour after hour the boats pulled back and forth 
from the anchorage to the shore, filling the casks with 
water, and still, when darkness shut down, by the 


208 


His Fatal Success. 


light of flaring torclies the work went on ; for Travers 
was anxious to be off and away again, not knowing 
how near the avenger of his crimes miglit be. 

John was lounging, as Avas his custom after dark, 
at the stern, Avhich was quite deserted by the crew, 
when, gazing down into the water, watching the 
phosphorescent spheres, like floating pearls, Avhich 
were whirled past the ship by the tide race, he saAV 
floating alongside, apparently forgotten, a boat in 
which Travers had returned some hours back from a 
visit on sliore to reconnoitre. 

Here he thought was his chance. It was a very 
sliglit one, but it was the only one, and his determina- 
tion to try it was increased Avhen he overheard Tra- 
vers announce that next morning the long deferred 
drawing of lots Avould certainly take place. 

‘ Quickly unfastening the rope, he let the boat drift 
with the tide until she Avas under the stern, and then 
refastening it, as nearly over his OAvn Avindow as he 
could judge, he slipped doAvn into his cabin, and 
locked the door. 

By the aid of a stick lie succeeded in securing the 
rope, and having cut it as far above his head as he could 
reach, he tied it to the bar of his AvindoAv. Then, 
having in a Avhisper communicated to Rose his inten- 
tions, and begged her to get ready Avith all speed, he 
hastened once more on deck. 

Everything for once seemed to turn out in his 
favor. The Avatch Avas carelessly kept, as they Avere 
at anchor, and only one man stood on the forecastle, 
Avatching Avith longing eyes the rest of the crew Avho 
Avere carousing merrily round a huge fire Avhich the}^ 


Ilis Fatal Success, 


209 


liad built on shore ; Travers, who knew how wise it 
was to give liis desperadoes a little relaxation when 
it was compatible with safety, having spared them a 
cask of ale for their gratification. 

John, while the roars of laughter and ribald songs 
rang faintly on his ears, hastily retied the rope in it’s 
original position, having previously unravelled the 
cut end to give it as far as possible the appearance of 
having broken, and then once more sought his cabin. 

He now reaped the advantage of the preparations 
he had been so long and secretly making. The stern 
windows projected as far over tlie water that he was 
enabled to bring the boat directly underneath him, 
and holding her in position with one hand, he rapidly 
and silently lowered the stores, which he had accumu- 
lated, with the other until all were safe on board. 

The only difficulty now was to place Rose in the 
same position. 

It was luckily no great height, for the ship was 
barely of one hundred tons burden, and Rose was 
country-bred and strong. 

Sliding down the rope, he managed with some dif- 
ficulty to secure his own footing on board the little 
craft. He had provided Rose with a rope tied at in- 
tervals into stout knots, and down this, when he had 
brought the boat under her window, she succeeded 
in scrambling with more agility than he had given 
her credit for, and stood at length wrapped once 
more in his fond embrace. 

But this was no time for endearments. Handing 
her to the stern he bade her sit still and keep silence, 

while he cut the rope which bound them to the ship, 
14 


210 


His Fatal Success. 


and instantly the boat was whirled around and swept 
away by the ebb tide. 

At the same moment the boat gave a heavy lurch, 
and a slight scream escaped from Rose. 

Hush, Rose dearest ! for God’s sake, don’t cry 
out,” said John, in an agonized whisper. 

“ Oh, Walter, come hither quickly,” she answered 
in a terrified voice. 

“ What is it?” he said, stumbling over the heap of 
goods which still lay in confusion in the bottom of 
the boat. 

“ There’s — there’s a man behind me, holding on to 
the boat,” she whispered in terror. 

John started up in astonishment, and saw, sure 
enough, dark against the reflections of the White 
Lily’s stern windows which were already some dis- 
tance away, the head and shoulders of a man. 

He was doubtful what to do. To knock him on 
the head with an oar would have been easy enough, 
but he shrank from killing any man in cold blood ; 
and yet to take him on board was the only other 
alternative, and a very dangerous one ; but after some 
hesitation he resolved to do so. 

As the boat swept round a projecting corner of the 
cliff, and the lights of the pirate ship vanished, he 
succeeded, not without a narrow escape from capsiz- 
ing, in helping the man, who had not yet spoken a 
word, into the boat. 

“ Come aboard, sir,” he said, shaking himself like 
a Newfoundland dog. 

“ Who in the devil’s name are you ?” cried John. 

“You have hot escaped me yet, Sir Walter,” was 


His Fatal Success, 


211 


the answer. ‘‘ I had an eye to you, for all your sly- 
ness. Where you go, I go. You know me — Bill 
Wringley. And now, sir, if so be as you take my ad- 
vice, you will just lay to one oar, while I lay to the 
other, or we shall be broad-side on to the breakers 
before another ten minutes.” 

And John, in a maze of doubt and astonishment, 
obej^ed without a word. 


CHAPTER XVIL ^ 

CAST AWAY. 

It was well for them that in the past weeks John 
had gathered a good store of provisions, and had had 
foresight to put on board also a barrel of fresh water, 
for before long a storm of wind and rain came down 
out of the north and drove them before it like a 
feather. 

For six days they sped on, whither they knew not, 
happy only that they narrowly escaped destruction 
in the heavy sea. Their supply of water was soon 
exhausted, but the rain that poured down, though it 
soaked them to the skin, also warded off the linger- 
ing agonies of thirst. During all this time Bill 
Wringley manfully took his share of the work while 
John rested. 

He had, it seemed, overheard John’s conversation 
with Rose one evening, and from that time had 
watched them like a cat. On the night of their es- 
cape, when the rest went on shore, he had volunteered 


212 


His Fatal Success. 


to remain as sentinel on board, a post which the 
others were only too glad to resign to him. He had 
observed John’s restlessness, and creeping stealthily 
to the stern, had from above followed all his prepara- 
tions. Had he been able, he frankly owned to John, 
he would have prevented their flight, but as he was 
single-handed, he knew that it was impracticable, 
and so, having determined to accompany them, had 
slid down a rope into the water and got on board, as 
has been told. 

But why ? ” said John. Were you not comforb 
able on board ? ^ 

‘‘ Aye, master, comfortable enough ; but my place 
is by you, and I will see you safe in old England be- 
fore I leave you.” 

John shuddered at this vindictive resolution, while 
Rose seemed astonished and touched at such un- 
looked-for devotion. 

In the meantime Bill, without another word on the 
subject, turned to and did his best for the safety of 
all on board ; of comfort there was no possibility. 
Indeed, they owed tlieir final preservation to him, for 
the constant exposure and liard fare were beginning 
to tell on Rose, who was visibly sinking, while even 
John was getting lamentably weak and ill. 

On the evening of tlie sixth day the storm, instead 
of abating, seemed to grow worse every hour. The 
rain rushed down, shutting them in as with a shroud, 
and the wind howled so furiously above that it was 
only by shouting his loudest that Bill managed, 
shortly after dark, to convey to John the fearful 
intelligence, “ breakers ahead.” 


ITls Fatal Success, 


213 


John looked, and beheld, not a liimdred yards away, 
a stretch of leaping, roaring waves, and spouts and 
pillars of wind-lashed foam. 

He strove to snatch the tiller from Bill, who was 
steering, but he thrust liim back and held straight 
on, shouting through the deafening uproar : 

^•It is our sole chance. If we attempt to put 
about we shall be swamped in a trice.” 

John recognized the truth of this, and went for- 
ward to where Rose had lain for sometime uncon- 
scious of her misery and danger, determined if the 
worst should come, to make a desperate attempt to 
save her or to die with her should he fail. 

In another minute they were in the centre of the 
mad turmoil of water ; one column of foam, flung fan- 
shaped liigh into the air, came plunging down upon 
them, half filling the boat ; another such would have 
finished it. A huge wave came rolling and surging 
in behind them, threatening them with instant de- 
struction ; for a moment it hung poised above them, 
and then, sweeping onwards, it swung them up, and 
literally hurled them over the threatening barrier- 
reef into comparatively calmer water. 

Still the boat flew on before the shrieking gale, and 
John expected every instant to be dashed upon the 
rocks. Ahead, to right and left he could hear the 
mighty rollers breaking in awful thunder on the cliffs. 
Nearer and nearer still. They should be among 
them now ! Gathering Rose’s inanimate form into his 
arms, he prepared to leap for life as soon as they 
should strike. 

But what was this? The roaring of the waters. 


214 


His Fatal Success. 


wliicli liad been in tlieir very ears, was now dying 
quickly away beliiud tliem, the spindrift ceased to 
lash them, the wind suddenly dropped, and they 
floated motionless upon an unruffled sea. He called 
to Bill, but received no answer, and he was ignorant 
as to whether he was still on board, or had been 
swept over in that raging whirlpool. It was pitch 
dark, and he could not see from one end of the boat 
to the other, so it was useless to seek any explana- 
tion until dawn. Where they were, and by what 
magic that fearful tempest had been stilled in an in- 
stant, was utterly out of his power to discover, so, 
giving up the attempt, he yielded to the claims of ex- 
hausted nature and slept profoundly. 

When he opened his eyes liis first thought was that 
he had awakened in fairyland. He was still in the 
boat, but instead of a stormy waste of troubled sea, he 
beheld a glassy stretch of waveless water. It was so 
clear that he could see, far beneath him, a world of 
strange fantastic rocks, covered with seaweed of 
every imaginable hue, in and out of which darted fish 
of unaccustomed shape and gorgeous color. The 
floor of smooth, Avhite sand was strewn with curious, 
many-tinted shells, among which crawled and scram- 
bled sea-beasts of grotesque shape and extraordinary 
size. Further away, the mirror-like surface reflected 
faithfully every detail of the surrounding scene, and 
indeed it was of a beauty that would bear repetition. 

The lagoon in which they floated was apparently 
encircled on all sides but one by lofty and inaccessible 
cliffs. To the north a valley, whose precipitous sides 
were clothed with a dense foiest of resplendent flow- 


His Fatal Success, 


215 


ers and luxuriant foliage quite unknown to liiin, clove 
away through the heart of the rocky barriers until, far 
above, it was blocked by the gloomy cliffs of an over- 
hanging mountain. All round at the foot of the en- 
closing walls was a border of level ground covered 
with an intricate confusion of tropical vegetation. 

How they had gained admittance to this terrestrial 
paradise was at the time a mystery to him, but he 
discovered afterwards that in the iron-bound cliffs that 
sheltered it from the ocean surges there was one nar- 
row and almost undisco verable opening into which it 
had been their good fortune to be driven — the only 
haven of safety in all that inhospitable coast. 

The sun was already high, and tlie heat almost un- 
pleasant, for though the wind still howled high over- 
head and tore in shreds the mists that wreathed the 
mountain summits, not a breath came to ruffle the 
stillness of their shelter. 

John, his first curiosity and delight gratified, be- 
thought him of his companions. Rose still slumber- 
ed peacefully, but Bill was gone. It was evident 
that he had fallen a victim to the waves from which 
they had been so miraculously saved, and John was 
almost ashamed to acknowledge even to himself the 
joy with which he realized his release from his re- 
morseless pursuer whose sole aim was to preserve him 
for the gallows. 

Taking the oars, without disturbing Rose, he gen- 
tly paddled the boat to the shore at a place where the 
branches of a tree, drooping down to the very sur- 
face, formed a natural screen to shut them out from 
observation, a precaution he thought it wise to take, 


216 


His Fatal Success, 


since lie aia not know whether the place was inhab- 
ited or not. 

He had scarcely secured the boat when Rose awoke, 
with a cry of astonishment at her changed surround- 
ings. He related as briefly as he could the events of 
the past night, not omitting the presumed death of Bill, 
and unwillingly pretended to share her regrets at his 
loss. He could not tell her what a relief it was to him. 

After they had taken a hasty meal from the sod- 
den food that still remained, they started to find 
some shelter, for it was impossible to foresee how long 
they might have to stay. 

It cut John to the heart to see how much the 
past week’s sufferings had affected Rose. That she 
should be pale and thin was to be expected, but she 
was so pitifully weak that it was only by clinging to 
his arm that she could walk at all, and even then she 
had incessantly to beg him to stop that she might 
rest awhile. At length he persuaded her to repose 
beneath the shade of a far-spreading tree, while he 
pursued the exploration alone. 

He was not long in finding the very thing he want- 
ed. In the foot of the cliff, close by a place where a 
rivulet, falling in a single stream from the rocks over- 
head, wandered through a grassy lawn shut in on all 
sides by trees, lie found a cave floored with soft dry 
sand. This he resolved should be Rose’s lodging ; 
and there she dwelt during their entire sojourn, 
while he built for himself a rough hut of boughs in 
which he could sleep, keeping guard at the same time 
over the entrance. 

And now for the first time he reaped some small 


His Fatal Success. 


217 


advantage from the loss of his former conveniences. 
Disgusted at the cumbrous slowness of the arquebuse, 
after the quick precision of modern fire-arms, he had 
devoted himself to acquiring the art of shooting with 
a bow, which served him well now in providing for 
their food. The flint and steel, which he had been 
compelled to adopt instead of the simplicity of a box 
of matches, and with which to say the truth he had 
at first cut and bruised his fingers most abominably, 
now stood him in good stead, and supplied him with 
tlie means of making a fire whicli would have been 
altogether lacking to him in his former life. 

For more than three weeks Rose continued so ill, 
and mended so slowly that, anxious as he was to ex- 
plore as far as possible this unknown country, 
Jolin did not like to leave her. She had at first a 
mortal dread of being left alone, while she was far 
too weak to accompany him. But at the end of that 
time, as they had neither seen nor heard anything to 
make them think that there were other human beings 
near, she consented to liis absence for one day. 

He took advantage of it to make his way to the 
summit of the mountain above them. Starting 
earl}^ in the morning, he ascended to the valley 
that rose to the north, through dense underwood in 
which, even at that hour, the atmosphere was that 
of a vapor bath. Emerging from this at length, he 
found himself on a broad stretch of turf which slop- 
ed rapidly up to where the shoulder of the mountain 
towered cliff upon cliff up into the sky. He saw that 
on that side an ascent was impracticable, but lioped to 
find a more possible path on the other side. As he strode 


218 


His Fatal Success, 


swiftly over the springy turf, lie perceived at some 
distance a deer which seemed to proceed with dif- 
ficulty, limping strangely along, di’awing both its 
hindlegs under it at the same time, and then advanc- 
ing with an ungainly leap. Waiting until it was 
sufficiently near, he brought it down with a well-aim- 
ed arrow, and, on approaching, found, to his extreme 
surprise and consternation, the cause of its extraordi- 
nary movements. Both its hind legs were transfixed 
by an arrow ! 

This discovery filled him with fear. There were 
then other inhabitants somewhere in the* neighbor- 
hood, savage ones moreover, judging by the arrow, 
which was of the rudest and simplest workmanship. 
He was doubtful whether to go on or return. Both 
seemed fraught with danger, but he resolved finally 
to continue his journey, as from the vantage point 
which the mountain top would give him, lie might 
be able to discover the whereabouts of these unwel- 
come denizens. 

He found the other side of the mountain steep, but 
not particularly difficult; it was indeed in general 
shape a cone, half of which had been removed as if 
by a perpendicular cut through the apex ; and scram- 
bling up the sloping sides he eventually attained the 
summit. 

The first glance showed him that they were on an 
island. All round, the sea stretched away to the 
horizon, which seemed to rise above him, giving him 
the singular sensation of standing in the centre of a 
circular bowl, and looking up and not down at the 
surrounding scene. 


His Fatal Success, 


219 


Tlie island was roughly circular in shape, two- 
thirds of it covered with a crescent of forest, a mass 
of unbroken foliage beneatli him, nearly in the centre 
of which glimmered the land-locked bay, besides 
which lay his dwelling-place. The rest of the land 
sloped away behind him to the water’s edge in long 
rolling downs, pierced here and there by minor peaks 
of rock. 

But not a sound from the forest, not a smoke 
wreath rising into the air, threw any light on the 
origin of the mysterious arrow, and in considerable 
trepidation he took his way homewards. 

He arrived safely without further adventures, hav- 
ing removed on his downward path such portions as 
he needed of the deer, which still lay untouched where 
he had left it. He was warmly welcomed by Rose to 
whom he had resolved to say nothing of his startling 
discovery, judging that it would certainly alarm her 
and would serve no purpose. He took care, however, 
for the future to find some excuse for always ex- 
tinguishing their fire before night fell. 

A whole week passed without bringing relief to 
John’s anxiety, or confirming his worst fears. 

Once indeed, when on the slopes below the shoulder 
of the mountain, whither he went almost dail}^ to 
reconnoitre, he thought he perceived at a distance, a 
faint blue smoke rising from the forest, but a close 
and careful search in that direction revealed nothing 
to account for it. 

In the course of the next week he made as thoi ougli 
an examination, as circumstances permitted, of the 
surrounding forest, but found nothing to indicate the 


£20 


Ilis Fatal Success. 


presence of mankind, and was forced to conclude 
that the intruders had removed to some distant part 
of the island, or had departed by sea for their 
homes. 

At the end of that time the tranquillity which, in 
spite of the slowness of Rose’s recovery, had begun 
to settle on John’s spirit was rudely dispelled. 

It was November the fifth, though nothing in that 
delightful climate of eternal summer betrayed the 
fact, when, liaving seen Rose comfortably disposed in 
the shade near the cave, he started to explore par- 
tially the portion of the island which he had not yet 
visited. 

The keen fresh air on the higher slopes exhilarated 
him, and it was with a joyful heart and a light gait 
that he turned the slioulder of the mountain, but he 
had no sooner glanced at the encircling ocean than 
he stopped short, and the song he was singing in the 
freedom of his spirits died away unfinished. 

Below him, beyond the rolling downs, a ship lay at 
anchor about three-quarters of a mile from the shore. 

Repressing his first impulse to raise a shout, or 
give some other token of his presence, he concluded 
to first obtain, if possible, some more certain knowl- 
edge of the visitor. He had not forgotten that the 
White Lily was still probably somewhere in these seas, 
and having once escaped he was not desirous of rush- 
ing once more into the power of Travers and his ras- 
cally minions. 

Advancing cautiousl}^ he gradually approached 
the shore. After a time a sound like the distant 
murmur of voices, the clash of metal, and the rattle 


His Fatal Success, 


221 


of falling stones broke louder and more loud upon 
liis straining ear. The further he proceeded the more 
distinct and unmistakable it became. 

Suddenly he stopped and flung himself at full 
length on the turf. After a period of intense, eager 
attention, he slowly and carefully crawled forward a 
few paces, and stopped again, still sti etched upon the 
sward. 

Beneath him the ground fell suddenly in aprecipb 
tons cliff, bordering a narrow, stony ravine, which 
seemed at times to carry the water from the upper 
declivities of the mountain to the sea. It was 
bounded on the opposite side by similar bluffs of less 
height, beyond which the downs rolled onwards as 
before. 

It was not, however, the scene, but what was pass- 
ing there that attracted his attention. 

Some way up the valle}^ beneath the shade of a 
lofty tree which flourished, strangely enough in that 
barren spot, stood a group of three men. Their voices 
fell clear and thin upon his ear, but the distance was 
too great for him to distinguish what they said, nor, 
for the same reason, could he make out their features, 
but their occupation was unmistakable. Two of them 
were engaged in Ailing up a pit, into which, at the 
moment when John became an unbidden spectator, 
they had succeeded with some difficulty in lowering 
an evidently heavy chest. 

The actions of the third, who appeared to be in 
authority, were of a less comprehensible nature. He 
cast, ever and anon, an anxious glance around him, 
and appeared, from his irresolution, to be meditating 


222 


His Fatal Success. 


some deed which he either feared, or was unwilling 
to perform. 

John was not left long in doubt as to what this 
hesitation meant. As the two men bent over the pit, 
which was already half refilled, he swiftly drew a cut- 
lass from beneath his cloak and, leaping like a cat 
upon the one whose back was turned to him, with 
one stroke cut him to the ground. The poor wretch 
fell writhing head-foremost into the pit, from which the 
other sprang with a cry of rage and horror which rang 
shrilly in John’s ears. He attempted to seize a weap- 
on, but his assailant was too quick for him ; clearing 
the space between them at a bound, he stood beside 
the miserable man, who seeing that flight and resist- 
ance were alike hopeless, fell grovelling upon his 
knees. For some time they remained thus, the one 
manifestly pleading hard for life, the other listening 
motionless. 

Then he raised his sword, and coolly ran the un- 
fortunate being through the body. 

A sick horror possessed John at the sight of this 
cold-blooded cruelty; the place swam before his eyes, 
and for a time he saw no more. 

When he recovered the man was engaged with the 
same cool deliberation in destroying all signs of the 
excavation by heaping rocks and stones upon the dis- 
turbed spot. The bodies of liis two victim's had dis- 
appeared, being presumably interred together with 
what he did not doubt was the treasure they had 
lielped to conceal. 

Having completed his arrangements to his apparent 
satisfaction, and having taken certain bearings, to 


His Fatal Success, 


223 


assist him, probably, in identifying the spot in the 
future, he advanced down the gulch with the evident 
intention of rejoining the ship. 

As he passed almost beneath John, who was con- 
templating the advisability of hurling a rock down 
to crush the assassin, he looked upwards at the sky. 

It was more with horror than surprise that John 
found himself once more face to face with Richard 
Travers, who after a casual glance at the unclouded 
firmament, resumed his downward path. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE LAST OF THE WHITE LILY. 

John, doubtful whether he had been seen or not, 
scarcely dared to breathe until the last sound of 
Travers’ footsteps, as he stumbled over the stony 
river bed, had died away ; but when no further echo 
rang faintly from the opposite cliffs, disturbing the 
hot silence, he leaped to his feet, and rapidly re- 
traced his steps. 

He was haunted by a vague premonition of- coming 
danger, and, though he fully believed that he had es- 
caped observation, it was an unbounded relief to him, 
on turning at the feet of the mountain, to see that 
the White Lily was already preparing to sail. He 
waited until the anchor was apeak, and the great 
mainsail hoisted, and tlien started once more on his 
homeward path. 


224 


His Fatal Success, 


He had lingered so long that darkness came, with 
that strange tropical suddenness, before lie reached 
the head of the valley vdiich led down to the bay, 
and he had to continue his journey slowly, and with 
precaution, for the way was difficult even by day- 
light. 

He had not proceeded far before he became aware 
of a faint glow glimmering through the trees, which 
he was convinced after a time could only proceed 
from a fire some way above him on the right, and 
eager as he was to rejoin Rose, who must by that 
time be getting anxious at his long absence, he felt 
it his paramount duty to approach with all possible 
care, and discover who was encamped in such danger- 
ous proximity to the cave. 

With all the silence and cunning of an Indian he 
advanced until, through an intervening brake of rust- 
ling bamboos, he could see, close at hand, the fire 
burning brightly. It was placed in the centre of a 
small rocky plateau, and threw a clear light upon the 
ground around it, and the overhanging cliff, but not 
a living creature was to be seen. It appeared to be 
entirely deserted. This mysterious solitude was 
more alarming than a whole army of painted savages. 
What was the meaning of this lonely beacon? Was it 
a signal, or had its makers heard Ins approach, in 
spite of his circumspection, and betaken themselves 
to ambush ? 

He did not dare to progress any further, and with- 
drew in the same manner in which he had drawn 
near, his nerves tingling painfully with the instant 
apprehension of a spear-thrust in his back, but* after 


His Fatal Success. 


225 


a period, that seemed to him an age, he issued un- 
harmed upon the path he had quitted. 

As he stayed a moment to rest, still pondering on 
the meaning of what he had seen, suddenly, above 
the pervading hum of the myriad insects that filled 
the air with murmur, above the harsh chorus of the 
frogs, above the dismal howling of the owls, and the 
strange cries of unknown night birds, a shrill faint 
scream, piercing the air, rose from the valley far be- 
low him. 

It was Rose, and in danger of some kind ! 

Regardless of the roughness of the path, reckless 
of the surrounding savages, heedless of the unseen 
perils that encompassed him, he dashed headlong 
down the ravine slipping, sliding, falling, rising and 
pushing on once more, he at length reached the level 
ground encircling the bay, bruised and breathless, 
but uninjured. 

Without an instant’s pause he flew to the cave 
where he had left Rose, to And his worst fears re- 
alized. She had vanished ! 

He called aloud and there was no answer ; but, 
when the rolling echoes of his voice had died away, 
as he listened eagerly for some response, he heard 
from far across the water the rattle of oars in the 
rowlocks. A few hasty strides showed him tliat 
his ears had not deceived him, the boat was gone. 

Exhausted as he was, he did not delay a moment. 
Whoever had carried off Rose obviously knew of the 
entrance to the bay, and was making for it. It was 
narrow and, if he could but arrive in time, he might 
yet rescue her. As he sped along the level shore the 


22B 


Ills Fatal Success, 


increasing noise of the oars proved to him that 
the oarsman was in fact holding his course for the 
opening and he soon found that he had outstripped 
them, and should get there first. He should save lier 
after all. 

He was already arranging in his mind how he 
would lie concealed until the boat was passing him, 
and then, with one spring, throw himself on board, 
when he found his further progress blocked. 

The lawn he was traversing had been rapidly nar- 
rowing, and now ceased altogether. Rising perpen- 
dicularly from the water’s edge a mighty precipice 
barred the way. In an agony of despair he paced the 
narrow beach. Advance was impossible, and in im- 
potent fury he heard the boat draw nearer and nearer, 
pass him, and go onwards. He shouted once more, 
but still there was no answer. A startled bird fell 
from the cliff above and broke the silence with clat- 
ter of wings, but that was all. He cursed and swore 
at the unknown, but the only reply was a peal of 
mocking laughter, which rang hollow from the nar- 
row cleft into which the boat entered at the moment. 

Heartbroken and hopeless he crept back to the 
cave, now reft of its beloved inmate, and after many 
a weary hour forgot his troubles, for a time, in sleep. 

All the next day he paced up and down in a state 
of helpless rebellion against the evil fate which had, 
a second time, and in as mysterious a fashion, torn 
Rose from his side. He thought neither of rest nor 
refreshment. He did not even wonder by whom she 
had been stolen from him. Back and forth he wild- 
ly strode, until the grass withered beneath his tramp- 


His Fatal tS access 


227 


ling feet ; one idea only in his mind ; Rose — Rose 
was gone, lost to him, possibly forever. 

It was late before he sought the shelter of the cave, 
which he was now determined to occupy for the fu- 
ture, and he shed many a tear, and heaved many a 
heartfelt sigh before he fell asleep. 

He awoke presently with a sudden start, having 
the sensation of a flash of light in his eyes. All was 
profoundly dark. But what was that murmuring 
and rustling outside ? 

Holding his breath, and pressing his hand upon 
his beating heart he listened intently. There were 
people moving near at hand, and whispering together. 
Who were they, and what did they want with him ? 
Sparks as of fire swam before his straining eyes, as 
he sat motionless and breathless. The suspense was 
agony, and he was about to rush forth in sheer des- 
peration and learn the worst, when a glare of light 
burst upon him, dazzling him utterly. At the same 
moment, three or four men dashed into the cave, and 
quickly seized and bound him. In silence he sub- 
mitted, and was borne to the boat which lay near at 
hand. It was needless to ask questions. He recognized 
his assailants, and knew that he had again fallen into 
the hands of his evil genius. For himself he had no 
fear or care, his only anxiety was for Rose. He 
wondered vaguely how Travers had discovered his 
place of concealment, and the explanation which he 
subsequently obtained may be briefly given here. 

Wringley, when he had been swept from the boat, 
had not been drowned, as John had assumed, but 
had got ashore on the opposite side of the bay. He 


228 


His Fatal Success, 


had made his way up the valley that opened from it, 
and, ignorant of the fact that his companions had 
also escaped, had supported himself on the game lie 
killed with a rude bow and arrows which he con- 
structed. He had seen the ship off the island and, 
having failed to attract the attention of its occupants, 
had returned to the bay to find some means of es- 
cape if possible. 

He had discovered the boat, and was about to de- 
part in it, when he was interrupted by Rose. Fear- 
ing that her cries would bring John, upon whom she 
called, to the rescue, he had overpowered and gagged 
her, and taken her with him in idle spite. 

The White Lily, owing to lack of a breeze, had 
made but little headway, and he easily attracted at- 
tention. When he had been taken on board, he had 
informed Travers of John’s situation, and had guided 
the party who had effected the recapture. 

So far Travers related the facts clearly and suc- 
cinctly, accounting to John for the various appear- 
ances on the island that had disturbed him so much, 
but when he made inquiries as to Rose, he was met 
with an affectation of indifference that baffled all 
investigation. That she was safe on board, was all 
that he could learn. 

If Travers maintained an invincible silence on the 
subject it was more than the crew did, who, as the 
weeks passed away, advanced by degrees from sup- 
pressed grumblings to open murmurs. It was con- 
trary, they said, to all the rules of the Society, that 
the captain, instead of drawing lots equally, should 
keep the girl to himself, and endeavor to ingratiate 


His Fatal Success, 


229 


liimself with her, an attempt which, as far as John 
could gather, met with but very scant success. 

The hardships he had undergone in the past months 
liad not been endured with impunity, and were not 
without their effect on Sir Walter’s already sickly 
constitution. Sufferings, which John in his former 
life could scarcely have gone through without some 
after result, affected only too easily his present wasted 
form, and he was for some weeks prostrated by a 
fever from wliicli he escaped worn and exhausted, 
mainly through the attentions of Wringley. 

It was the end of December before he was once 
more able to crawl on deck, still miserably weak, 
to find that the crew were on the verge of open mu- 
tiny. Travers, rebuffed in his suit to Rose, had be- 
taken himself to drinking lieavily, to which habit he 
had always possessed no inconsiderable tendency, and 
in the madness of intoxication his cruelties and exac- 
tions became unendurable. 

On Christmas day, as John was seated in his cabin 
recalling, dismally enough, many pleasant memories 
of merry Christmases past in his old lost life, and 
contrasting them bitterly with his present situation, 
he was aroused from his reverie by a shot and 
a cry of agony. As tliere had been none of the 
usual preparations for attack, he concluded that the 
long smouldering rebellion had at last burst forth. 

Rushing from his cabin, he made his way liastily 
to the upper deck, not that he had any intention of 
interfering on either side, but because he knew that 
his own fate was intimately connected witli that of 
Travers. 


230 His Fatal S^iccess. 

That he had rightly guessed the cause of the dis- 
turbance was clear at the first glance. 

Opposite him, in the doorway connecting the forti- 
fied forecastle with the waist of tlie ship, stood Tra- 
vers alone, his eyes flashing Avithrage. Below Jolin, 
with their backs to him, stood the crew in a semi- 
circle, wliile betAveen the tAA^o groups lay tlie still 
quivering body of a man, Avith a ghastly liole in his 
forehead from Avliicli tlie blood trickled slowly to the 
deck. 

The mutineers seemed doubtful hoAV to proceed, 
for Avliile Travers had still several pistols in his belt, 
they Avere only armed Avith boarding pikes or cut- 
lasses. So quickly had John gained the deck that 
the discharged pistol was still smoking in Travel's’ 
hand. Without giving the jierplexed creAV time to re- 
cover he noAV grasped it by the barrel and witli a 
yell of fury flung it among the men, catching one of 
them so shrewd a blow on the temple that he dropped 
lifeless to the deck, Avhile he instantly dreAV another 
from his belt. At the same moment a boarding pike 
fieAV from the hand of one of the men, and barely 
missing Travers, Avho sprang hastily on one side to 
avoid it, stuck trembling in the door-post by his 
side. 

Another shot answered tliis attack, and the man 
Knocknaile, flinging his arms into the air fell heavily 
on his face Avith a gurgling cry. With a shriek of 
fury the entire body of men rushed forward, but 
Travers quickly AvithdreAV into the doorway Avhicli 
Avas too narroAV to admit more than one man at a 
time. 


His Fatal Success, 


231 


In their efforts to advance they only incommoded 
one another, and as two shots in quick succession 
rang through the ship, and a cloud of smoke poured 
from the entrance, tliey surged back in confusion, 
leaving two more of their number on tlie ground. 
One of these was already dead ; but the otlier, though 
severly wounded, endeavored to crawl back to his 
comrades. Travers observing this, as he reappeared 
in the open, while still covering the rebels with a pis- 
tol in one hand, wrenched the pike from tlie wall be- 
side him, and with a laugh of exultation pinned the 
writhing creature to the deck. 

A pause now ensued in the hostilities, the men 
fearing to advance, and Travers evidently anxious to 
reserve his fire, as he had now but two pistols left, 
and it was impossible for him to reload them when 
once discharged. 

Suddenly he came forward a step or two, and as 
the men drew back, shot one who was endeavoring to 
persuade them to charge, then turning he fled back into 
the doorwa}^ flung the door to, and securely barred 
it, before the astonished men could reach it. 

In another instant he appeared on the roof of the 
forecastle, his only remaining pistol still in his hand. 

With a shout of vengeance the men rushed forward, 
some battering furiously at the door, others attempt- 
ing to clamber up the bulkhead, while still others 
hurried to fetch a ladder which they placed against 
it. Already the door was yielding to the repeated 
blows, already a man had his foot on the lowest rung 
of the ladder, when Travers with a quick movement 
opened a trapdoor at his feet, and shouted in a voice 


232 


His Fatal Success. 


of thunder rising clear above the yells and execrations 
of the men : 

‘‘ Back miscreants, back ! Advance but a step and 
I fire ! Ye think I have but one shot lefto Stir but 
a finger and that shot shall blow the ship, and all of 
ye to perdition. Ye know me of old. My word is 
my deed. One step and I fire the magazine.” 

The scene, though lie saw it but for a moment, was 
photographed on John’s mind, never to be effaced 
as long as he lived. Travers, erect and defiant, the 
pistol pointing to the dark opening at his feet, the 
men silent and motionless each fixed in the attitude 
he had been in when Travers spoke. One moment, 
and then a scream from beneath brought John at one 
bound to the side of the ship. A glance showed him 
a boat full of men, already at some distance from 
the ship, and struggling in their midst, a figure 
which he knew must be Rose. 

The next instant the cool green water was roaring 
in his ears as, leaping from the deck, he plunged be- 
neath the surface. As he rose he felt the sea around 
him shaken with a mighty throb, and above the rush- 
ing of the water he heard a dull muffled explosion. 

As his head emerged from the waves he saw the 
air checkered with fiying fragments showering down, 
and a large mass of timber falling with a resounding 
splash within a few feet of him reminded him of his 
danger. 

He immediately dived again, remaining under water 
until lie could bear it no longer. When he had dashed 
the brine from his eyes, and recovered his breath lie 
perceived that he was alone. The gentle undiila- 


His Fatal Success. 


233 


tions of the sea were covered far and wide with float- 
ing wreckage, which rose and fell softly around him, 
but the White Lily was gone. 

The boat he had previously seen was now at some 
considerable distance, but he hailed her wildly on 
the chance of being heard. He saw one man whom 
he believed to be Wringley, endeavor to turn her head 
in his direction, but in spite of his evident expostula- 
tions, the others prevented him effecting his purpose, 
and before long she dwindled to a mere speck and 
disappeared in the offing. 

John, in the meantime, had not been idle. Select- 
ing from the numerous pieces of timber in his neigh- 
borhood, one which, while sufficiently large to sup- 
port him, was not too heavy, he started swimming in 
the direction which the boat had taken, pushing it 
before him. 

It was hard work, but without it he must shortly 
have perished from exhaustion, whereas now, when 
he was too tired to proceed, he could lash himself to 
the beam and remain safely afloat until he had some- 
what recovered his strength. His progress was in- 
evitably slow ; but that he did advance, however 
slightly, was obvious from tlie fact tliat he gradually 
left behind him all traces of tlie catastrophe. 

He did not wait to discover whether there were 
any other survivors. He neither knew nor cared. It 
was improbable, almost impossible ; and even in his 
nearly hopeless situation he cheered his flagging 
spirits with the thouglit that now, at all events, he 
must liave got rid forever of the ill-omened man in 
yellow. 


284 


ffis Fatal Success, 


All that afternoon he struggled bravely on, taking 
longer and longer intervals of rest, until, as the moon 
rose above the horizon, he realized that all further 
effort was impossible, and, tying himself securely to 
the beam, committed himself to the mercy of the 
waves. Lulled by their gentle motion, he fell presently 
into troubled sleep, and did not wake until the sky 
was red with the dawn. 

He would have resumed his former method of pro- 
gress, but worn with his previous exertions, exhausted 
by hunger and thirst, and stiff from the prolonged 
immersion, he found that it was impossible. The sun 
was not high before, utterly overcome, he lost all 
consciousness. 

When he recovered he found himself once more in 
a berth on shipboard. 

‘‘What day is it?” he asked, wearily, of a man 
who stood beside him. 

“ The thirty-first of December,” was the answer. 

It was the anniversary of his fatal success. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE CHAIN IS BKOKEN. 

The exposure, coming after the illness induced by 
his previous sufferings, physical and mental, brought 
on a severe relapse, and during the entire voyage 
Jolin lay seriously ill. 

He understood, vaguely, tliat lie had been discov- 


i£is Fatal iS access. 


235 


erecl, well-nigh dead, and taken on board a vessel 
homeward bound from the Azores ; but he did not 
inquire what ship it was, or in Avhat part of the ocean 
he had been picked up. Life was to him little more 
than a troubled dream, in which his real self and 
former existence became more and more inextricably 
mingled with his present miserable condition. En- 
couraged by the apparent fact that the exhausted 
state of Sir Walter’s body had weakened the ties that 
bound him to it, he endeavored at all hazards to 
break them altogether, and if he could not return to 
his old life, at least to shake off the troubles and diffi- 
culties that surrounded him. His attempt, however, 
was unsuccessful ; there was still some link that held 
him back. Was it possible that Travers was still 
alive ? 

Owing to head winds, it was not until the third of 
February that the vessel reached her destination, and 
John crawled feebly on deck. 

Why, what place is this ? ” he exclaimed, in as- 
tonishment, to the captain, who accompanied him and 
who had offered to put him on shore, having firmly 
refused to accept any portion of John’s scanty stock 
of money in return for his kindness and care. 

Port of London,” said the worthy fellow. “ Come, 
sir, the boat awaits your pleasure. God be with you, 
and farewell,” and with a hearty grasp of his lionest 
hand he turned to his duty, leaving John to clamber 
painfully down the ship’s side. 

London ! Yes, it was London ; but how strangely 
altered. Even in his dizzy, wondering state of mind 
he could not fail to notice it. 


236 


His Fatal Success. 


The sky was blue and smokeless; the suii sparkled, 
undimmed by fog, upon the river, which flowed clear 
and bright. The Tower, although possessing various 
buildings now swept away, was easily recognizable, 
but all else was different. That strange structure. 
Old London Bridge, spanned the river, with, at low 
tide, its line of foaming falls ; instead of the looming 
dome that crowned the city, the lofty tower of old 
St. Paul’s rose clear into the air ; instead of slimy 
wharves, the banks were lined with fair gardens and 
stately mansions. It was London without a doubt ; 
but a strange new London such as he had never 
known. 

All this he saw on his way to the shore without 
any emotion of surprise. He was past receiving much 
impression from external objects. It was without 
astonishment that he found the street, which he crept 
wearily into from the riverside, full of armed men, 
hurrying to and fro in wild excitement, raising, ever 
and anon, loud cries of “No popery! No Spanish 
marriage ! ” 

His chief desire was to find some quiet and retired 
tavern where he could lie down and rest. He wished 
for obscurity for he realized, with scarcely more than 
indifference, that Sir Walter must liave had many 
enemies, creditors, perhaps even officers of the law in 
search of him, by any of whom he would be instantly 
recognized, while all alike were unknown to him. 

He was about to seek shelter from the thronged 
main street, in a by lane, when he perceived a richly 
dressed gentleman in his path who, stopping with a 
start of surprise, held out his hand, exclaiming; 


[Us Fatal Success. 


237 


“Sir Walter! By’r lady, I hardly knew you. You 
are sadly changed. But come, come with me — we 
have work in hand after your own heart — we will 
smoke the popish fox.” And raising the cry “ No 
popery ! ” which a score of throats re-echoed, he seized 
John’s arm, and dragged him along with him, too 
weary, too careless to resist. 

They reached in time a large handsome house, 
which seemed at the moment a very pandemonium. 
The doors were broken in, the casements smashed to 
atoms, and the house filled with a mob of shouting, 
yelling men, who were employed in wrecking every- 
thing within reach, tearing down the hangings, hack- 
ing the. carved work with swords and axes, and 
committing every extravagance of destruction 
imaginable. But in the library, to which his new 
friend dragged him as to the very centre and summit 
of amusement. Bedlam seemed to have broken loose. 
The books were snatched from the shelves, torn into 
countless fragments, and flung upon the floor. The 
air was filled with fluttering sheets of paper, the 
ground was strewn knee deep with rustling leaves, 
and still tlie hubbub and commotion grew. 

As John, standing listlessly in tlie doorway, gazed 
with lialf-seeing eyes upon this extraordinary scene, 
a cry of fire was raised. Some one had mischievously 
set a torch to the waste of litter, and as there was a 
brisk breeze blowing through the shattered windows 
the place quickly became a sea of flame. At this 
moment ho fancied he perceived among the throng 
of maddened beings fighting to reacli the door, a man 
resembling Travers, but he was liimself swept away 


238 


HU Fatal Success, 


by the hrst rush of escaping men, and when he paused 
outside unable to proceed further, the shrieks and 
yells of agony, together with the clouds of smoke and 
tongues of flame tliat poured from inside convinced 
him that, if he had not been mistaken, as was prob- 
ably the case, there was but little chance of his 
enemy surviving. 

He had become separated from his unknown friend 
in the stampede, and glad to be relieved of his un- 
welcome companionship, he moved away, intending 
to cross the bridge. To his surprise he found that it 
was strongly barricaded, and a battery of guns 
blocked the shore end. Foiled in his intentions he 
sought an inn, and with difficulty obtained the 
slielter of which he stood so much in need. 

For two days he lay Iielpless, and heedless of all 
that passed without, but at the end of that time a 
new and stranger circumstance partially aroused him. 
The thunder of cannon, the crash of falling roofs and 
chimney-stacks, the shrieks of the terrified populace 
broke upon his wondering ears. 

It is probable that he would have continued to 
listen, without any thought of moving from so 
dangerous a neighborhood, had not a man rushed 
suddenly into the room in which he lay, crying : 

“Up, up. Sir Walter! Boot and saddle is the 
word I The good folk here begin to find our company 
too warm for them. We march at once.” 

In spite of his feeble remonstrance he was dragged 
out, and still with merely a vague surprise found 
himself on horseback among a numerous body of 
armed men, marching, whither he neither knew nor 


His Fatal Success. 


239 


cared, llis only wish was to be permitted to lie down 
and die in peace. 

All that afternoon and far into the night the}^ 
plodded on, every step of his steed racking his aching 
limbs, his brain whirling, until it was with difficulty 
that he managed to remain in the saddle. When, at 
about midnight they halted, he dropped from his 
horse, ratlier than dismounted, and would have fallen 
to the ground had he not been sustained by a strong 
arm. His assistant led him to a blazing fire that 
crackled in the open roadway, and fed him with 
bread and wine. 

After a time the roar of guns commenced again, 
near at hand, but his weakened body could endure 
no more, and he swooned away. 

When he awoke he was lying in bed in a strange 
room, and a pleasant matronly-looking body was 
seated at work by the fire which murmured cheer- 
fully upon the hearth. 

‘‘Where am I?” he moaned feebly. 

The woman rose at the sound of his voice and 
came towards him. 

“ Where ? Why, marry, here in Kingston,’’ she 
said. 

“ Kingston ! ” he repeated in amazement. “ Hov/ 
on earth did I get here ? ” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” slie said, in a curiously mysterious 
tone. “I know not, and you have forgotten.” 

“ But how ? ” he asked again in irritation. 

She evaded the question as before, and all through 
the ensuing week, during which she nursed and 
tended him carefully. Whenever he returned to the 


240 


His Fatal Success, 


topic she refused with the same mysterious air to 
answer him, evidently assuming that they had a com- 
mon knowledge of a matter which it was un- 
wise to mention. An assumption which, so far as 
John was concerned, Avas entirely unfounded. 

How long have I been here ? ” he asked once. 

Let me see,” she answered, pondering, ’Tis, 
methinks, five weeks since — since you came here.” 

‘‘ And you have nursed me all that time ? ” he ex- 
claimed. 

‘‘ Ay,” she replied. ‘‘And would thrice as long for 
the sake of — of the good cause.” And with a nod 
full of secret significance, she left the room. 

John had so far recovered by this time that these 
hints and hidden meanings puzzled and annoyed him 
extremely, but she obstinately refused to speak more 
plainly, and clearly thought that he was skilfully 
playing a necessary and not un am using part. 

He was already considering the expediency of 
moving further, though in what direction to seek his 
lost Rose he knew not, when the woman entered his 
chamber, with scared eyes, and a face pale with ap- 
prehension, crying: 

“Haste thee, haste thee, you must fly at once. A 
troop of horse and officers with a search warrant 
are even now entering the town. I dare not have 
them find you here.” 

“ Wliy, what do you mean ? ” he said, in amaze- 
ment. 

“Nay, nay,” she answered, wringing her hands in 
terror. “ Tarry not ; this is no time for idle jesting. 
Fly, while tliere is yet time,” and seeing that he still 


His Fatal Success, 


241 


lingered, she almost forced him from the room, saying 
in a tone of agonized entreaty : 

“ Be gone, man. Is this your gratitude? Would 
you hang us ? ” 

Cutting short alike his questions and his thanks, 
she led him to the back door, and hastily pointing 
out the road he had best take, shut and locked it 
upon him. She refused to take any payment for her 
services, reiterating : 

“ Nay, nay. ’Tvvas for the good cause.” 

Whatever this mysterious cause might be, it was 
sufficiently clear that the woman’s fear was not 
feigned, and that for some misdeed unknown to John, 
instant flight was essential for the preservation of 
Sir Walter’s life. 

The long rest and careful nursing he had enjoyed 
had considerably improved liis bodily condition, 
though he was still very weak, but to the mental 
distress occasioned by the loss of Rose, was now 
added a constant apprehension concerning his own 
danger. He felt that he was at all times surrounded 
by unseen imminent perils. It would have been some 
relief had he been in a position to recognize it when face 
to face with it, but in his ignorance, he might at any 
moment walk unconsciously into the very jaws of 
danger, perhaps even death. 

It was to a certain extent a comfort to him, after 
this constant haunting dread of the unknown, to find 
himself at length in actual opposition to a known 
and recognizable enemy. 

On the tenth of April, having after the usual day’s 
wandering, found shelter in a roadside tavern, he was 
16 


242 


His Fatal Success. 


seated by the fire during the preparation of his sup- 
per, when the door opened and a iiian entered with 
a rattle and clash that showed that he was armed. 
John moved slightly to one side to make room for 
the new-comer, and would have continued his reflec- 
tions without further observation, if he had not 
been recalled to himself by an exclamation from the 
stranger : 

‘‘ Ah ! ” he cried in a tone of sarcastic satisfaction. 

Well met, Sir Walter Carlingford.” 

John started to his feet in some alarm, and saw 
standing before him, in a threatening attitude, William 
Merrill, the brother of the ill-used Mary. 

“You here?” he cried. 

“ Better late than never,” was tlie reply. “ You 
escaped me once before. It is my turn now. I have 
bided my time, but now we do not part until I have 
chastised your cowardice and treachery.” 

“ Stop a moment,” said John. “Let me explain.” 

“Draw, and defend yourself!” shouted the other. 
“No explanation will suffice. My deserted sister calls 
for vengeance.”^ 

As he spoke he lunged at John with such deter- 
mination that he had no choice but to put himself in 
an attitude of defence. 

For some seconds they stood silently on guard, the 
flashing point of his opponent’s weapon dazzling 
John’s eyes, while the scrape of the steel grated 
harshly on his nerves. Suddenly with the quickness 
of lightning, Merrill sprang forward. John, lie 
knew not how, ])ari ied the tlirust, but before he could 
.recover lie felt a slight stiiig in his left shoulder, and 


His Fatal Success, 


243 


knew that he was w^ounded. Maddened by the pain, 
he in his turn attacked so furiously that Merrill, in 
spite of his superior science, had much ado to defend 
himself ; but John was weak and ill, and it became 
evident to him that before long the combat must 
have a fatal ending for himself. Already, more than 
once his adversary’s 'sword had been in close prox- 
imity to his breast. He had already given himself up 
for lost, when the door was flung violently open, and 
a man in black, followed by four soldiers, rushed into 
the room. 

“ Strike up the weapons.” cried the former, ‘‘ dis- 
arm, and secure them ! ” 

In a moment to John’s no small satisfaction, their 
swords were snatched from them, and their arms 
bound behind their backs. 

‘‘ What means this intrusion, knave ? ” asked Merrill 
haughtily. 

“I arrest you, William Merrill” answered the 
man,” for unlawfully conspiring against the crown 
and peace of Her Gracious Majesty the Queen, whom 
God preserve.” 

Merrill shrugged his shoulders, and turning to John 
said in an accent of the bitterest contempt : 

‘‘Is this your doing. Sir Walter Carlingford? ” 

John was about to protest his innocence of any 
complicity, when the officer with an expression of 
joy, exclaimed : 

“Sir Walter Carlingford ! This is right good fortune. 
I have sought you far and wide. I arrest you for the 
same cause, in that you were an aider and abettor at 
the sack of Winchester Place. Bring them away.” 


244 


Ills Fatal Success, 


In spite of John s remonstrances, and protestations, 
he was dragged from the room, and mounted behind 
one of the soldiers, to whose belt lie was securely at- 
tached, and Merrill being similarly accommodated, the 
whole troop set out for London. 

John had wandered further than he thought, for it 
took them three days’ hard riding to reach their des- 
tination, during which the two prisoners, though care- 
fully guarded, were treated with all possible consid- 
eration. 

As they passed through the streets on their way 
to the Tower, they encountered more than once, a sight 
ghastly enough to make the stoutest shudder. Wher- 
ever there was space enough, stood a gallows on which 
hung in rows the bodies of the unfortunate insurgents, 
of whom John had so unconsciously been one. 

His escort pointed them out to him with a grin, 
plainly intimating that their fate would also be his. 

On their arrival they were taken into a guard-room, 
where a venerable-looking old man noted down their 
names and qualities. 

This being done, he carefully consulted a list which 
lay on the table before him. 

‘‘ Merrill,” he said at length, “ must remain here for 
the question ; he is deeply implicated. Dispose of Sir 
Walter as you may ; there is no room here.” 

An application at Newgate met with the same re- 
ply, and after a brief consultation the party moved on 
once more. 

It was now dark, and John was unable to distin- 
guish his sorroundings, when he was told roughly to 
dismount. A heavy door was unlocked and opened, 


Ills Fatal Success, 


245 


he was thrust forward, and the door was fastened be- 
hind him. 

The place was absolutely dark, and stepping cau- 
tiously forward he heard the rustle of straw beneath 
his feet. Another step, and he stumbled over a soft 
object which a muttered curse showed him to be a 
man. He felt around with his outstretched hands, 
but could find nothing within reach, and stepping for- 
ward once again he trod full upon another man, who 
sprang up with an oath, and hurled him away. He 
tripped over another as he staggered back, and 
falling full length on the floor, determined to remain 
where he was until dawn should enlighten him as to 
his whereabouts. 

An occasional rustling of the straw, and the sounds 
of heavy breathing around him told him that he had 
many companions in misfortune, and that fact afford- 
ed food for cogitation until he fell asleep. 

As, scarcely awake, he opened his eyes the next 
morning, he was astounded to see above him a column 
rising gracefully upwards until far overhead it spread 
out into arching groins supporting a richly carved and 
gilded roof, below which was a row of lofty win- 
dows, and lower still an intricately carved gallery. 
Sitting up, thoroughly aroused by the strangeness of 
his surroundings, he saw, stretching to right and left, 
behind and opposite him rows of similar columns, and 
he perceived that he was in a church. The pave- 
ment was covered with straw, and on it in various 
attitudes of repose or wakefulness, lay fifty or sixty 
men, doubtless prisoners like himself. 

Here he remained, in doubt as to his fate, for nearly 


246 


His Fatal Success, 


three weeks. His companions seemed little affected 
by their situation, and as wine and food were easily 
procurable by those who could pay for it, they pass- 
ed their time for the most part in reckless carousal. 
John was too ill in body and distressed in mind to 
join them, though repeatedly invited to do so ; and 
as, much to his relief, none of them had known Sir 
Walter, he was left very much to his own gloomy 
thoughts. 

Occasionally a new comer was unceremoniously 
thrust among them ; oftener one or another was taken 
away never to return ; but this circumstance seemed 
scarcely to affect them, and after the first expressions 
of sympathy by the intimates of the departed man, 
they betook themselves once more to songs and drink- 
ing bouts. 

Time passed, and the expected summons for John 
came not , until at last he almost longed to receive it, 
so weary was he of this life. 

On the third of May, however, an event occurred 
which roused him friun liis apathy. As he was sit- 
ting apart in melancholy solitude, the great door was 
flung open, and a inan, accompanied by a dozen pike- 
men, entered the cliurch. 

John, on beholding him, leaped to his feet, and 
stood leaning pale and breathless against a column, 
staring in fixed wonder at the new arrival. Was he 
never to be free of his tormentor ? 

His countenance was seamed and scarred, and he 
halted in his gait, but there was no mistaking that 
face and figure. In spite of the various marks that 
showed he had not come off scathless, John saw at 


Ills Fatal Success, 


247 


once that Eichard Travers had, by some miracle, es- 
caped from the destruction of the White Lily, and 
stood before him. Was lie also a prisoner? 

This matter was not left long in doubt ; stepping 
cat-like among the groups of men, with the same, well- 
known, evil smile upon his face, he lightly touched 
the shoulder of a man who was uproariously trolling 
the burden of some bacchanalian song. He looked 
up in surprise, but he was instantly seized by two of 
the soldiers, a rope was flung round his neck, and he 
was led away, his reckless gayety exchanged for 
piteous apprehension. 

Wandering here and there among the wretched 
prisoners, who shrank from his approach, he touched 
one man after another, until eight had been led out 
with the fatal halter round their necks, amidst grow- 
ing murmurs from the remainder. 

“ Spy ! Traitor ! Informer ! ” louder and louder rose 
the cries, while Travers, still smiling odiously, con- 
tinued his treacherous work. 

With a sinking heart John saw him slowly approach, 
with no look of recognition in his eyes. Nearer and 
nearer he came, making straight for him, with hand 
outstretched, delaying as if with the purpose of pro- 
longing the agony ; the fatal touch already hung dal- 
lying above him, when suddenly from the far end of 
the place a clear voice rose above the hubbub, crying 
aloud : 

“ Down with him ! Down with the traitor ! ” 

Travers started and turned pale. He seemed to 
comprehend all at once the danger of his position. 
He had not apparently realized before, though count 


248 


His Fatal Success, 


less watchful eyes around him had noted it, that 
every wretch sent to his doom reduced his guard, un- 
til now there were but four left. In an instant these 
were seized and held securely, while another body 
rushed to prevent the door being opened from out- 
side. No violence was offered to the men, who were 
merely hindered by main force from interfering, or 
summoning assistance. 

Travers, his eyes glaring with rage and terror, 
drew his sword, and placing his back against a pillar, 
prepared to defend himself. 

But what was one puny blade against that rabble 
of maddened men ? 

With a yell of fury they rushed down on him like 
wolves. He passed his sword through the body of 
the first, but before he could withdraw it the rest 
were upon him. He was clutched by a hundred 
hands, and dragged struggling into the centre of the 
church, his shrieks of pain and terror drowned in 
the yells of exultation. In an instant he was hidden 
from sight in the throng, each striving to get near him. 
Shriek after shriek rang echoing along the vaulted 
roof, as countless hands clutched and tore at the 
wretched creature. John, much as he had reason to 
hate the man, sickened at the sight, and closed his 
eyes and stopped his ears to shut it out. 

Presently the crowd surged back, and each man, 
who had but now both looked and acted like a 
fiend, sank unconcernedly upon the straw ; the sol- 
diers were released, and pale and trembling, left the 
place with faltering steps. 

Splashes and flecks of blood here and there upon 


His Fatal Success. 


249 


the ground, still quivering fragments of flesh and 
bone scattered far and wide, were all that remained 
of Richard Travers. 

He had been literally torn to pieces by the men he 
had betrayed. 


CHAPTER XX. 

IN SAFETY. 

A WEEK after Travers liad met his ^ragic ending, 
as the warder, whose duty it was to distribute their 
rations to the prisoners, gave John his allowance, he 
said to him in a hurried whisper : 

Lie to-night as near the vestry door as may be. 
Do not sleep for your life, and make no sound what- 
ever happens.” 

There was no time to ask for explanations, as the 
man at once moved on ; so John, in a state of 
wondering confusion, followed his instructions im- 
plicitly. About midnight, when the regular breath- 
ing of his companions betokened Unit they were all 
asleep, he heard a gentle rustling in the straw beside 
him, and felt a hand laid softly on his breast. 

Rise and follow me,” murmured a voice in his 
ear, which he recognized as the warder’s. “Above 
all be silent ! ” 

He obeyed, stepping cautiously over the straw, 
until his conductor said in a less suppressed tone s 
“Stop” 


250 


His Fatal Success. 


He halted in utter darkness, wliile the door through 
which they had apparently passed was softly closed, 
and secured behind him. A curtain was drawn 
across it, and then the man, casting off his caution, 
struck a light, and John perceived that he was in a 
fair-sized room, which was ordinarily used as the 
vestry of the church in which he had been imprisoned. 

‘‘ There, madam,” said tlie man cheerily, to a dark- 
cloaked figure that stood in one corner. I have 
done my part faithfully. About yours quickly. 
There is no time to lose.” 

With these words he opened another door which, 
judging by the gust of cool air which entered, gave 
upon the outer world. 

The figure silently signed to John to proceed, and 
he did so in considerable amazement. The woman, 
who stayed for a moment to hold some further con- 
versation with the jailer, in which, as he inferred 
from the sound, the payment of a sum of money had 
no unimportant -share, followed him shortly, and in- 
dicating a by-street which frowned darkly upon them, 
led him to where two horses were standing ready 
saddled, in the charge of a servant. 

‘‘ Mount, and away,” she said in a muffled voice, 
quickly setting him the example. 

As long as they were in tlie town she repressed 
all his attempts at conversation ; but when thej^ had 
attained the open country, and the sky behind them 
was already bright with coming day, in reply to his 
oft-repeated questions as to who it was that had done 
him such signal service, she threw back lier liead. 


His Fatal Success, 


251 


and he saw in the giay light of dawn, the face of 
Mary Merrill ! 

‘‘ You ! ” he exclaimed, overwhelmed by this proof 
of devotion and forgiveness on the part of a woman 
whom he had apparently wronged so bitterly. Do 
I owe my life to you ? ” 

She gazed upon him with some apprehension at his 
impetuosity. 

“You do not grudge me that slight satisfaction, do 
you, Walter? ” she said, reproachfully. 

“ Grudge it you ? ” cried he, touched almost to 
tears. “ If there is one thing I grudge you it is your 
noble heart.” 

She blushed deeply, but made no answer. As they 
rode rapidly westward, in answer to his inquiries, she 
explained how she had come to rescue him, delicately 
avoiding any reference to the reason why. She had 
journeyed to London on behalf of her brother — a 
mission which the mourning she wore showed to have 
been vain. When about to return in despair to her 
solitary home in Wick worth, her father being dead, 
she had heard that Sir Walter was also a prisoner, 
and had determined, with a woman’s magnanimity, 
to effect his escape. This was more easily done than 
she had anticipated. The country was sickened at 
the persistent persecution of the hopelessly crushed 
rebels, and the authorities openly winked at the es- 
cape of any of the captives who liad friends outside 
rich enough to bribe the easily-persuaded warders. 

“Dear lady!” said he. “ How can I thank you 
properly? The wrong you think that I have done you, 
though God knows I am innocent, clogs my tongue.” 


252 


His Fatal Success, 


Oil! speak no more of that,” she said, earnestly. 
“ I have long since learned to forgive, if not to for- 
get it.’’ 

He could find no words to reply, but he warmly 
pressed the hand she extended to him, and raising 
it to his lips respectfully kissed it. 

‘‘ And where are we going ? ” he asked, after a 
time. 

“ I thought — ” she answered, somewhat doubt- 
fully — ‘‘of my house at Wickworth, if it please you. 
There will be no pursuit, but ’twere better you should 
not be seen in public as yet.” 

He was horrified for the moment at the notion of 
going to a place wheue, for all he knew, a price was 
set upon his head, and a warrant prepared for his ar- 
rest ; but he reflected that had the ruffians fulfilled 
their threat, Mary could not have failed to hear of it, 
in which case she was scarcely likely to have inter- 
ested herself in the fate of a supposed murderer. 

They entered the well-known town after nightfall 
on the fourth day, and, passing through without 
drawing bridle, reached their destination unimpeded. 

Here John remained for nearly a month, enjoying 
such peace as his rapidly failing health, and the ever- 
present thought of Rose permitted. He liad not 
ventured into the town to make inquiries, and nat- 
urally shrank from questioning Mary Merrill on a 
subject which she, on her part, avoided with womanly 
tact. 

More than once he was on the point of endeavoring 
to explain to her the extraordinary manner in which 
he, in his innocence, had become saddled with tlie 


Ills Fatal /Success, 


253 


crimes and offences of Sir W alter Carlingford, but lie 
despaired of being able to make her understand, and 
mucli against his wishes refrained. 

The more he saw of her, the more he admired and 
respected her. He was treated with tlie utmost con- 
sideration. A suite of apartments and several ser- 
vants were devoted to his use, and he never saw 
Mary, unless he himself volunteered to visit her. 
Seeing the pleasure it gave her, and being anxious to 
repay, to the best of his ability, the benefits she 
showered upon him, he went every day to spend 
some hours in lier company. 

He felt some scruples at thus partaking of her hos- 
pitality under false pretences. He winced when she 
addressed him as Walter, but she would not hear of 
his departing, and he consoled himself by the tli ought 
that, in his ever-weakening condition, it could not 
last long. 

On several occasions he noticed her watching him 
with curious, wondering eyes, and at length he asked 
her the reason. 

I know not,” she answered. ‘‘ You are so changed. 
You seem so different. In old times — ” she went on, 
with a sigh — “ even when I loved you — no, no ; fear 
not. That is past — even then I could not, somehow, re- 
spect you, but now you seem so altered, so good and 
lionest. I have heard of your wicked life, more, I 
doubt not, than is true, but looking at you now I can- 
not believe it. I did then, though I could not choose 
but love you the while, God help me ! ” 

“ I am not the same. Miss Merrill, ” he answered, 
her declaration overthrowing the reserve he had forced 


254 


His Fatal Success, 


himself to keep till then. I have a strange story to 
relate. I do not ask you to understand me, I only 
ask you to believe me. Do not think me mad, for as 
there is a heaven above us, it is true.” 

And he told her, as clearly as lie could, the history 
of his strange adventure. 

She did not, she could not understand him. She 
did believe him. It was not long before this faith 
was put to the test. 

It may seem strange that, during all this time, 
John had made no attempt to escape from his troubles 
by returning to his former life, but the fact is that 
since Travers’ death he had felt so certain that he 
could succeed, that the tie that restrained him was 
broken, that he deferred the effort in the wild hope 
of seeing Rose once more. 

On the third of June, as he was walking in the 
park that surrounded the house, listening to a merry 
peal of bells that rang faintly from the town in the 
distance, three men dressed in black approached him. 

Sir Walter Carlingford ? ” said the foremost, in- 
quiringly. 

John acknowledged that he was generally called 
so. 

‘^Then, sir,” said the man, producing a parchment, 
‘‘it is my painful duty to arrest you.” 

Arrest me ! ” cried John. “ What for ? ” 

“ For the wilful murder of Roger Ilelmsley on 
Cricnell Common.” 

John staggered back with a groan of despair. The 
blow had fallen at last. 

“.Permit me, at least, to return to my apartments 


Hid Fatal Success, 


for a moment,” he said, after he had recovered from 
the first shock. 

‘‘ I am sorry, sir,” was the answer, “ but my orders 
are peremptory. The justices are sitting even now. 
I have a coach in waiting, and you must e’en come at 
once.” 

In a gloom of hopeless despair John accompanied 
his captors. They respected his position, and not a 
word was spoken among them on the way. 

As they passed the church tower, from which the 
merry peal still rang out loudly, as if in mockery of 
his misery, they were forced to halt to give passage 
to a procession whicli poured from the church doors. 
It was a wedding party, and he was so placed that 
no detail escaped him. The contrast between the 
careless merriment of those laughing groups, and his 
own blank, hopeless agony was horrible. The cheery 
townsfolk chattering gayly, the girls clad in white, 
strewing flowers on the patlnvay, passed like a half- 
seen vision before his eyes, and then a hush of expect- 
ancy announced the approach of the bride and bride- 
groom. 

The groom was a wiihered old man, who would 
more appropriately have become a funeral. But 
what a bitter pang of anguish pierced poor John’s 
heart when his gaze fell upon the sad, pale face of 
the bride. It was Rose — his dearly loved, long lost 
Rose — now indeed lost to him forever ! 

He half rose in his seat, but the man beside him 
pulled him down again. The movement, however, at- 
tracted her attention, and for an instant their regards 
met. An expression of horror sprang into her eye^, 


256 


His Fatal Success. 


her lips half parted, and with a fearful strangled cry, 
she sank lifeless to the ground, while at the same 
moment, the way being clear, the carriage dashed 
on. 

What the proceedings were in which he took so im- 
portant a part, John knew no more than the dead. 
Rose, and Rose only, filled his mind with agonizing 
grief. 

He heard, as in a dream, that the evidence was the 
afiidavit of a man named Richard Martlett, who had 
been lately hanged at Carlisle for highway robbery. 
He had a vague recollection of the presiding magis- 
trate saying that this was, itself, scarcely convincing, 
but that he thought it advisable to refer the case to 
the assizes, which commenced that week. Several 
questions were put to him, but he did not understand 
them, and could not answer them, and then, after a 
banging of doors and grating of bolts, he found him- 
self in the solitude of a prison cell. 

He tried to reflect upon his situation but in vain. 
Rose was lost to him, by what threats or cajolery he 
knew not, and what did anything matter now ? 

In this state of aching indifference to his own fate 
he passed the next week, and from it he roused him- 
self with an effort when he was arraigned before a 
crowded court, on trial for his life. 

The affidavit was read ; Mary Merrill was unwill- 
ingly compelled to admit that Roger Helmsley had 
been a frequent and not unwelcome visitor when Sir 
Walter appeared iq^on the scene, and that his myste- 
rious murder had followed close upon that event. 

Hei'e the case for the prosecution would have 


His Fatal Success. 


257 


rested, and there seemed a strong conviction that the 
evidence was altogether insufficient, when a mes- 
senger pressing through the crowd handed a note to 
the counsel. 

“ My lord ! ” he said, rising, when he had hastily 
read it. There is a man without who is anxious to 
give his testimony, but, as he is in some sort impli- 
cated, he demands the protection of the court, and 
the promise of a free pardon for himself.” 

“He shall have it,” said his lordship, “if his evi- 
dence be of sufficient weight to warrant it.” 

There was a bustling pause, and then John’s brain 
reeled, as with a malicious scowl at him. Bill Wring- 
ley stepped into the witness box. 

Dick’s statement was corroborated in every detail, 
the damning document was produced, and abundantly 
identified as being in Sir Walter’s handwriting, and 
before long John was led back to prison, convicted 
and condemned to death ; Wringley also being de- 
tained until his pardon should be negotiated. 

July the first was the date fixed for his execution, 
and three weeks only remained before that date. 

He ceased to notice the lapse of time. Aggravated 
by his grief, not at his own fate but at the loss of 
Rose, his illness increased upon him so much that it 
was doubtful if he would live until the fatal day. 

As far as he could judge, it was on the tenth night 
after his condemnation that he was aroused from 
sleep by the smell of smoke and the crackle of burn- 
ing timber. That he was not the only one to observe 
it was clear from the yells of fear that proceeded 
from the other prisoners. The smoke increased in 
17 


258 


His Fatal Success, 


volume, and already the glare of fire shone in the 
passage without, when his cell door was hastily un- 
locked, and he was hurried between two jailers into 
the open space in front of the prison, and there care- 
fully guarded while the work of rescue went on. 

The flames spread rapidly, and clouds of sparks 
flew high into the midnight sky. The roar of the 
flames, and the shouts of the men vainly flinging 
buckets of water into the blazing pile, were drowned 
for the moment by the dull crash of the falling roof, 
and by a shrill piercing cry of anguish which suc- 
ceeded. 

In the open doorway, which glowed like the mouth 
of a furnace, a dark figure appeared for a moment 
against the brilliant background, and then fell head- 
long down the steps. 

His clothes were alight in twenty places, but the 
flames were quickly beaten out, and he was laid, 
scorched and blackened, at the feet of John as he 
stood among the rescued prisoners. 

In spite of his dreadful condition, he recognized 
his remorseless enemy, Bill Wringley, and was clearly 
recognized by him, for, raising himself with difficulty 
upon his elbow, he shook his maimed and seared 
hand at him, and with a scowl and a hideous sound- 
less effort to speak, fell back dead. 

Horrified at the hate that even such mortal agony 
could not abate, John sank lifeless to the ground. 

Even he, indifferent as he had become to all that 
surrounded him, was surprised on his recovery to 
find hirnseli once more in the old familiar room. A 
wild hope sprang up for a moment in liis mind, only 


His Fatal Success, 


259 


to die at once. The room was as Travers had left it, 
not as he had known it. He was a condemned pris- 
oner still. 

A week before the day on which he was to suffer 
the dread penalty of the law he received a note from 
Mary. It expressed her sincere regret that, owing to 
the circumstances, she dare not, in the face of public 
opinion, come to see him ; lier firm belief in him, her 
intense pity for his undeserved affliction, and her 
fond farewell. This instance of pure though blind 
faith, touched him profoundly and encouraged him 
strangely. 

The days flew quickly past, and still no sign of 
Rose. The evening of the thirtieth of June arrived, 
and he determined to no longer run the risk of wait- 
ing. He shuddered when he thought that perhaps he 
had overrated the easiness of the task, and contem- 
plated with growing horror the prospect of failure. 
He would delay no more. 

He had scarcely come to this resolution when, with 
the gruff announcement, ‘‘ a lady to see you,” the 
jailer ushered in a cloaked and hooded figure. No 
sooner had the man disappeared than the wrappings 
were flung aside. Rose stood before him, and with a 
cry flung herself into his embrace. 

“Walter, dearest Walter,” she sobbed. 

“ Rose, my own little Rose,” he answered, mingling 
his tears and kisses with hers. 

“ I thought I should never be able to come,” she 
murmured. “Oh, V/alter, they are so cruel to me 
now.” 

“ Poor darling, poor child,” he said sadly. 


260 


His Fatal Success. 


Tell me, Walter,” she continued eagerly, ‘‘you 
did not do it, did you?” 

“ No, no, dearest heart, no no,” he replied earnest- 
ly. “ How could you think it ? ” 

“ I never did,” she said, smiling proudly through her 
tears. “ They tried to make me, but I never would.” 

“ God bless you for that, my best beloved.” 

“ They told me you were dead,” she said irrele- 
vantly, “ and then they drove me to it. Can you 
forgive me ? ” 

“Forgive you?” he cried, straining her to his 
heart. “ But are you very unhappy ? ” 

“Yes,” she answered sobbing bitterly. “Yes. I 
thought I could bear it when you were gone. And 
then I saw you — and after that — but it is not for 
long, it cannot be for long, dear.” 

“What do you mean?” he said, but her pale, 
hollow cheeks and bloodless lips told him only too 
well. 

“I am dying, Walter, dying,” she said, almost joy- 
fully. “And I am glad of it now. We. shall soon 
be together.” 

Whether the jailer had forgotten them, or whether 
out of kindly pity he pretended to have done so, at 
all events he did not return, and they sat for long in 
the gathering twilight, forgetting everything but 
that they were together. 

Suddenly she rose to her feet, pressing her hand to 
her heart, and then would have fallen, had he not 
caught her in his arms. 

“ Kiss me, Walter,” she whispered, clinging feebly 
to him and pressing her lips to his. “ Kiss me, 


His Fatal Success, 


261 


dearest love, I shall escape him now. I am dying. I 
am glad — so glad. We shall soon be together now. 
Do — not — forget me.” 

Her lips moved soundlessly, she raised her head, 
kissed him once more, and with a deep sigh, sank 
back, lifeless in his arms. 

With bitter tears he laid her gently and reverently 
on the ground, and with a single parting kiss upon 
the cold still face he set himself once more to his 
task. The last frail tie that bound him was broken 
now. 

For many agonizing minutes all his efforts were in 
vain. What if he should fail now after all ? The 
thought was appalling. The next morning would see 
him, all guiltless as he was, led to a horrible and 
ignominious death, a murderer’s doom. He must get 
some hold upon his old lost life. In his mental agony 
he called upon the one true spirit he had known of 
old. If he still lived in any memory it was in his. 

“ Come to me — Come to me — Come to me,” he 
cried again and again, not aloud, but in his inmost 
soul. 

And then it seemed as if a faint far voice came 
ringing down the boundless halls of time in answer 
to his cry. 

Clearer and more clear, the old life came back to 
him, the old familiar room, his dearest friend. He 
seemed uplifted in space, his head swam, till with a 
profound sigh he fell senseless by the body of the 
dead girl. 

He awoke once more, and shuddered to see the 
same room before him. He felt dizzy and confused, 


2G2 


Ifis Fatal bucce8%. 


his sight was dim and misty. The same room ! Was 
it the same ? No, surely it was different. It was not 
as Travers had known it, and yet it was not as he had 
known it either. The books and smaller ornaments 
were none of his. 

Presently his eye fell upon the clothes he wore. 
They were strange and yet familiar. Suddenly his 
memory returned. They had been liis of old. He felt 
them, they were real. He raised his eyes, full of a 
new-grown hope and saw a well-known, well-loved 
figure standing before him. 

With a cry of joy he rose and fell forward into the 
arms of his best, his long lost friend. He was free 
from all his troubles and dangers — safe — safe at home 
at last. 

Postcript^ by the Editor, 

One week after the manuscript was completed, in 
the last days of September, John Stuart passed peace- 
fully away in my arms. 

He never recovered from the sufferings he had 
gone through. The doctor who attended him could 
discover no actual disease, and was consequently 
unable to do anything to relieve, or save him. It 
was, he said, a kind of decline, brought on by mental 
suffering ; a general break up of the system for which 
there was no remedy. He suffered no pain, but 
gradually faded away. 

I was sitting by his bedside, the last sad evening, 
in the fading, light when he raised himself suddenly, 
and said : 

“ Take me in your arms, old fellow, I am going.” 


His Fatal Success. 


263 


He lay for some time, his head on my shoulder, 
breathing as gently as a child, and I could scarcely 
believe that he was as bad as he thought. 

“ Don’t cry for me, old boy,” he said softly, for I 
am not ashamed to own that my tears were running 
fast. “ I am only glad. It is better so.” 

For a long time we sat so, in the gathering gloom, 
for he would not let me get a light. 

Occasionally he would murmur a few words of 
comfort, or consolation to me. In his last moments 
he was as unselfish, and as thoughtful for others, as 
I had always known him. 

“ That story,” he said presently. Don’t give it 
to the world until I have been long dead. I don’t 
want the curious to come staring and doubting at my 
grave.” 

I promised faithfully, and he was silent once more. 

At length he sat up suddenly, and stretching out 
his arms, cried twice : 

“ Rose, darling, I am coming ! ” 

Then, with a deep sigh, he sank back into my arms, 
and died without a struggle. 

So I lost the best friend I ever knew. I am getting 
on in years now, but in the whole thirty-four that 
have passed since then, I have never met his like, 
and never expect to. 


THE END. 



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